


After The Siege

by AnonAnton



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Anal Sex, BAMF Castiel, Blood and Gore, Blow Jobs, Bottom Castiel, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Married Ellen Harvelle/Bobby Singer, Masturbation, Minor Character Death, Minor Pamela Barnes/Dean Winchester, Napoleonic Wars, No Angst, Officer Castiel, Original Character(s), POV Alternating, Past Ruby/Sam Winchester, Period-Typical Homophobia, Secret Relationship, Soldier Castiel, Soldier Dean, Swordfighting, Top Dean, Topping from the Bottom, Virgin Castiel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-14
Updated: 2016-08-09
Packaged: 2018-05-21 06:48:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 23
Words: 51,229
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6042117
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnonAnton/pseuds/AnonAnton
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's 1812, just days after the Siege of Badajoz, Spain, in the midst of the Napoleonic Wars.</p><p>Captain Castiel Novak finds himself haled a hero of the battle and is invited to a celebratory ball. When he finds a body, and his sword is clearly the murder weapon he discovers himself the target of a plot. He has his suspects and an ally, he just needs to find some men to help him find the true murderer in order to clear his name.</p><p>Enter Sergeant Dean Winchester, fellow American slung in to a war that has nothing to do with him. With a long lost brother and a built in mistrust of all officers, he finds him self making a bargain with his stuck up Captain. One favour for another.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is currently one art work for this story [here](https://anonymousantonym.wordpress.com/after-the-siege-master/).
> 
> This work is un-beta'd, so please let me know of any glaring mistakes. I would love any and all feedback!

The candle lit ball room glittered with unreality, the elegance and etiquette a contradiction to the past few days and months. Captain Castiel Novak shivered in spite of the sweltering atmosphere as his eyes roved about the crowded room. He scowled at the flushed faces of the women, and the florid faces of the men as he tried to hold his partner's hand with something less than a death grip.

He and the young woman beside him progressed down the line together, feet following the familiar and tiresome path of the dance. The pretty, vivacious redhead at his side looked up at him with a smile, catching his eye when they once again found their places in the line and faced each other with a small bow and curtsey. The return to formality and prescribed manners; the entire occasion sat unpleasantly with Novak.

Of the sparse number women at the ball, Miss Charlotte was the only one he had felt any particular inclination to dance with. His Major had all but ordered him to leave his dark and lonesome recess of the room and 'interact like the hero you're meant to be.' He had stepped in to the light, not wanting to draw attention further attention from his superior, nor to his complete lack of interest in the proceedings. He had scanned the writhing scene before him with disdain before he found his eyes alighting on a girl bent double in laughter. She stood alongside a blonde, ringlets bobbing in mirth as she too laughed freely, both of them clutched their stomachs and gasped for breath in a most unseemly fashion. He felt his lip twitch as he smiled, liking the open honesty of the moment and, eyeing his Major who was squinting at him intently, swiftly joined the ladies. He introduced himself, bowing solemnly, and asked if the slight redhead would do him the honour of dancing with him. 

Miss Charlotte's eyes were alive with mischief and she spoke eloquently of Spain and battle, war and suffering, ill timed celebratory dances and the banality of heroism. Novak was, for the first time that evening, engaged. This charming woman, dressed in a fashionable yet modest gown, actually had something other than fine fabrics and the appeal of a well cut uniform going on behind her wide-eyed expression. 

He took a breath, trying to distract himself from the rest of the room, the insult of the ball that he had been ordered to attend. “Miss, may I ask where you formed these views? Your opinion on war is intriguing. Where does a young lady, even one on a campaign trail, discover such things?” 

Miss Charlotte looked for a moment like a startled deer, as if realising that she had been talking freely of things that men didn't like to hear a woman voice. She coloured in such a way that it clashed remarkably with her hair. Novak mused briefly that if such a man came along, this Miss Charlotte would make a fascinating bride. 

“I, erm” She hesitated, studying Novak's face with a calculating expression. She must have seen something in his features though, something to goad her to continue, less guarded than before. “My step-father is an aide to Wellesley, he is technically an engineer, but he travels the country reporting to the General. A great many people send reports to him of all sorts of things. He and I may on occasion have a discussion about his role, the army, and battle. I must admit, Captain, that I find it all rather fascinating.”

Novak felt his face break in to a true smile for the first time that evening, possibly the first time in months, and Miss Charlotte gasped and laughed in return, grinning up at his greater height. Novak started to feel fondly towards the girl, and thought that perhaps she could be extremely dangerous to get on the wrong side of too. “Did we just become friends?” She asked, an impish grin lighting her face. “Sir, I think you would get on well with my step-father. He, too, is an American, I think perhaps I could introduce you?”

“I would welcome it Miss Charlotte.” He smiled down at her and offered her his hand to lead her from the dance.

“Father” Miss Charlotte gained her Step-Father's attention away from a short, ruddy faced officer of the artillery. “Charlotte.” The older man replied gruffly. Novak was instantly on guard. This man, he could already tell would not suffer fools gladly. “Please allow me to introduce you to Captain Novak, Captain, this is my step-Father, Captain Robert Singer.”

“I am honoured to make your acquaintance Sir.” He stiffened to attention briefly. As an engineer, promotion was only to be had through seniority, you could not buy your way up the ranks unlike in the rest of the army. Singer had probably been a Captain a long time, and Novak knew the man was senior to him, more experienced, efficient and well regarded. He may not have heard of the man, but if he was an aide to Wellesley, he was an important part of the army in Spain.

“Humpf” Was all the response he got, with a baleful glance while the man took a long pull from his silver, monogrammed hip flask. 

Novak sighed. He'd spent the evening up until he had hid amongst the shadows, deflecting sycophantic ladies twittering about how brave he was, and had he killed many of the evil French?, and 'oh!' wasn't he handsome! He had become bored in a matter of minuets after walking through the wide doors in to the faded opulence of the ball room. His superior officer, Major Adler had extended an invitation to him, and politely told him he was expected there as, 'a hero of the battle.' Novak was disgusted. His heroism had been purely that of his survival whilst he watched hundreds and hundreds of his fellow men mown down by bullet, grapeshot and shrapnel on the breaches of the third siege of Badajoz, on the 6th April, 1812. He felt the bile rise yet again. He had thought himself the only person here who thought a celebratory ball to be in poor taste. Apparently the bright Miss Charlotte shared his views, and maybe her intimidating step-father would agree. He supposed it would either draw him out in to conversation or end it immediately, and he could continue standing at the edge of the guttering candle light, and brood.

“Sir, your daughter mentioned you were of the Engineers. I do not wish to offend, but I wondered why the breaches were declared practical. Would not further cannon fire have made them easier to assault? And therefore eased the loss of life we incurred? A few feet off the top of the breach may have saved hundreds of lives.” He truly was interested, not trying to anger then man next to him. He was not an engineer and assumed there must have been a legitimate reason not to continue to hurl round shot at the broken down wall to make it easier to approach.

The grizzled man turned to him with raised eyebrows and an incredulous look. Novak held his breath, wondering if the man was about to explode with fury. Instead, he let out a loud abrupt bark of a laugh. “You're not afraid to speak your mind are ya?” Singer turned to his daughter, no change in his stern expression, but Charlotte's eyes sparkled, as they seemed to communicate silently, she curtsied and scampered off in to the press of uniformed and be-gowned bodies.

“I- er-” Novak hesitated, but Signer cut across him. “They were declared practical because bombarding them further would not have made one iota of difference. The Frenchies were crawlin' out throughout the night and arming them whether we were firing or not, and even givin' us days we'd have only been able to knock another few feet off the top. And the French would have had another few nights to arm the breaches. We decided it was too bad either way, and not to prolong it. We knew we'd lose men. Lots of 'em. The peer and I knew we couldn't make it much better.” Singer's face was sad. His eyes haunted. He sounded tired to the bone. Novak regretted provoking him, but glad at the same time. He thought he rather liked the rough talking Captain.

“He cried ya know. Wellesley, on the breach, when he saw the bodies. So many men. And he cried. He knew he had to take this God damned city, and God, did we pay for it.” Novak just nodded solemnly. He knew, and he appreciated Singer's explanation of the need to throw men at the breaches, whether they were practical or not. The war could not move forward without the taking of Badajoz. 

Singer coughed suddenly, looking slightly awkward. “You, er, you seemed to enjoy dancing with my step- um, my daughter.” Novak laughed quietly, more to himself than for Singer's benefit. “Yes Sir. She is a fine, spirited girl.” 

“Spirited huh? That's one way to put it. Dangerous and whimsical is another. She'll be the death of any husband that takes her.” At this Novak laughed out loud. “Is that a warning Sir?” He asked chuckling. Singer looked amused. “I don't think you need it, do ya?” Novak turned and watched the redhead talking animatedly to the blonde girl again. All other details aside, he was not well situated enough with a known family, or within his career to be considered marriageable material. “I think your daughter is safe from me Sir, I'm more interested in winning battles than anyone's affection.” He raised his eyebrows at Singer, hoping that he'd not question his less-than-usual priorities, or his careful wording.

“I think you do well, Son.” Singer replied with a light smile on his face. Novak cleared his throat to hide his smile. “May I ask what happened to her father, Sir?”

“Miss Charlotte Bradbury is my wife's step daughter from her second marriage, and therefore my daughter of some sort. I lose track. Her father, Major Bradbury, was killed shortly after his marrying Eleanor, uh, Mrs Singer. She hadn't long lost her first husband; Major Harvelle. Bradbury's first wife, Charlotte's mother, died in childbirth. Mrs Singer stayed by her when Bradbury died, Charlotte and Miss Joanne, over there-” he said nodding gruffly in the direction of his other step daughter, another blonde girl with a sweet face, “became firm friends. Then I met Eleanor, and we wed. So now I have two mischievous daughters, neither of which with my blood. War makes fools of families, but at least family don't end with blood. They're mine and I'm proud.”

Novak smiled at this gruff old gentleman. He clearly had a lot of love for his family. Novak thought his sentiment a sound one. He had not been able to choose his blood relations, and although he may not have made a new family for himself, away from them, he had at least chosen to leave them far behind him. The possibility of picking his own, new family, and surrounding himself with friends intrigued him, but yet again the prospect of finding a woman with whom he could share conversation, respect, attraction and love left him bewildered. The closest he had yet come was Singer's Step-daughter, and there was no desire there. He sighed to himself.

Their conversation lulled, but not uncomfortably. Novak decided he liked Singer, and Singer had apparently found him acceptable company too. They stood off to the far side of the dance floor, sipping slowly at their wine, and Singer, when he knew his wife to be engaged looking else where would take a sip from his flask, which, from the smell, Novak knew to be a good whiskey. 

He watched the vapid faces of half drunk officers swirl the two dozen girls through the dances. The women's gowns were diaphanous, and more than one man was clearly enchanted by his proximity to what was on show below his partners' throat. Novak snorted, shaking his head in disgust. These men were officers, gentlemen, the English, for heavens sake. And, watching them in what was their preferred setting; glittering lights, fine wine, delightful music and beautiful women, and they behaved no better than a common soldier of the line. He was considered a barbarian, purely for the geographical location of his birth, and yet here these men were, all but drooling in to the bosom of the girls they were dancing with.

Singer noted his disgusted amusement. “They're hardly heroes are they, Novak? Hardly even soldiers. And, certainly they ain't fighters.” Singer turned his intense gaze away from the crowd and locked it on to the taller man's face. “Not like you eh? You may wear fancy clothes, but I can tell you're a fighter.”

“I certainly hope so Sir. I do not wish to be anything but. I have a name to make for myself. Lechery will hardly help-” At this Singer sorted loudly. “I don't know son, you may make a name for your self in certain circles if you go down that track.”

Novak had to smile. “I don't think those circles' opinions are the ones I will chose to care about.”

Singer didn't answer verbally, but Novak thought he had gained a little more of this man's approval. A feat that was quickly becoming important to him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a tiny note for anyone who likes to know these things. Because of where and when this is set you may as well assume that everyone you come across is English. I tried to use characters with the correct accents but couldn't across the board. So the following characters are the only ones who are in fact American in the story; Benny, Dean, Sam, Cas, Bobby and Bartholomew.


	2. Chapter 2

Singer was impressed with this young man. It seemed Captain Novak had made a small impression during the horrific battle some days before. He had led his men well, always at their front, showing his Company the way, both literally and in terms of bravery. Or, so one of his subordinates had reported. The Captain led the light infantry company for Major Adler's Battalion. They had been hard hit. Almost half their number wiped out during the twenty days of the siege. 

His step-daughter, Charlotte, was extremely intelligent and quick witted. When he had noticed her dancing with the tall, handsome officer he had taken an interest, enquiring after him. She usually did her best to avoid all dancing, and generally hated such social situations as these, especially when the morality behind it was questionable. Celebrating after so many lives had been lost turned his stomach and hers alike. 

Eleanor Singer caught his eye across the crowded room and he saw her eyes flick to his quiet companion. Her eyebrows rose in question and he nodded silently. His wife took as little shit from those around her as he or his daughters did, and she understood that if he was taking the time with the young man, then he was of interest to her, too. In what capacity was yet to be seen. She had still not entirely despaired of finding a husband for either of her daughters.

He cleared his throat quietly to regain Novak's attention, as he watched his wife glide sedately through the crowd, easily avoiding the gentlemen who had had too much wine, and the women who were paying too little attention. Novak was staring absently at the crowd, averting his gaze from anyone's eyes with a thoughtful sneer plastered across his face. He thought he liked this man. The young officer was clearly as disquieted by this upper-class show of near debauchery as he himself was. He cleared his throat again and the man's clear blue eyes snapped up to his. 

“Allow me to introduce my wife.” He said as the beautiful women came to a poised halt in front of the two of them. “Mrs Eleanor Singer, Captain Novak.” Novak's mildly sickened expression was replaced instantly with an honest show of pleasant interest. “Castiel Novak, at your service, Ma'am.” The man's deep voice was smooth as he bowed over Mrs Singer's hand and brought it to his lips. 'Charming bastard' Singer thought, smiling wryly.

“A pleasure to meet you, Captain.” Eleanor said, her surprisingly deep voice, smooth and musical. 

Singer just listened whilst his wife and Novak exchanged pleasantries, his attention drifting to the seething scene in front of him, candle light glinting off epaulettes and necklaces, men with red faces and women blushing as they drank glass after glass of good French wine left after the siege. 

His wondering mind snapped back to the situation at hand when his wife asked of Novak; “What brings you to work in His Majesties' Army?” Singer took note of Novak's subtle change in stance. The man blinked rapidly, swallowed loudly and stiffened, even more proud and upright than previously. Not a comfortable subject for the man then, he mused.

“I-” He started, swallowing again. Novak took a deep breath and consciously smoothed his brow, trying to seem at ease. Singer took it all in. “My family and I do not entirely get on, Ma'am. I wished to build a reputation for myself, make my name my own, if you will, rather than continue under their, um, overbearing interests.” Singer could tell the man was searching for a polite way to explain his situation. The man clearly knew his last few words made little to no sense. But one of the pleasant things about the upper classes, was their ability to not ask too many questions.

To ease Novak's discomfort he caught the eyes' of his daughters, who were both without partners for this dance. A situation, he noted, that happened far too often for two such attractive, young girls. He sighed. Perhaps he shouldn't have warned off the dapper Captain next to him. With out great fortune or high rank he may be, but he was also intelligent and driven. Probably a better match than many. And, Charlotte had seemed to actually like him. Unlike every other man she had ever met. 'Balls' he thought crudely.

The girls approached with another two or three young ladies who had noted Joanna and Charlotte walking towards the attractive Captain. Those two or three had attracted a similar number of young officers too. Joanna, forward as ever introduced her self to Novak, and then continued to introduce the group of men and women now surrounding Novak and himself. The addition of so many new people may have distracted his wife from her questioning, but it had clearly not calmed the Captain. He looked even more uncomfortable than before. Singer's opinion of him rose just a little higher.

“Captain Novak, Sir-” a foppish looking lieutenant began, “I overheard Major Adler boasting of his Battalion's actions during the battle. Are you not one of his officers? Would you tell us of the battle? I am of the artillery and unfortunately saw no hand to hand fighting.” The man seemed nervous, as if Novak was some famous General recanting old war stories. Novak seemed to think the lieutenant insane going by his swiftly changing expression. 

Novak's response yet again raised him in Singer's opinion. “Unfortunate? I think you lucky Lieutenant-” He broke off awaiting the man's name, having clearly forgotten Miss Joanna's introductions already. When the man filled the gap, Novak nodded and continued. “Very lucky indeed. The battle was best seen from the gun embrasures I assure you.” Novak clearly hoped that would be the end to it, but the expectant look on everyone's faces seemed to force words from him.

“We were under the Light Division. I am unaware of what happened. Night attacks are fraught with potential danger. I think somehow our division got lost. We ended up against walls with no breach, when we should have been at the third breach. Panic was already setting in with the troops, they were jumpy from the march in the dark, they weren't to make noise, but it sounded as if the hounds of hell were on the loose to me. I tried to keep my men calm, let them drink the rum they were not meant to have on them.” Novak swallowed, looking in to the distance, as if all he could see was the fearsome battle of a few nights prior.

“We heard the fighting begin, we could see light, I believe it was from burning hay bales thrown in to the breaches by the French. We knew we were lost then, we should have been attacking, but the third breach was no where to be seen. We were still moving, and, I don't know, suddenly we were mixed up with thousands of men in amongst the attacks on the first two breaches. It was like falling in to hell it's self. Men were everywhere. Dead, alive, writhing, screaming, on fire, threaded with bullets and shrapnel. The noise alone turned your stomach.”

“We seemed to be in a pit of death, men kept surging forward to attack the breach, but every time they found the top of the pile of rubble they were mown down. I could hear cannon, muskets, they were even throwing down lit barrels of gunpowder. I led my men in one charge, but we didn't even get near the base of the breach before the men above us were blasted into pieces.” Singer watched as Novak swallowed, his eyes glazed as he stared at a scene only he could see.

“Then something seemed to change. The noise of battle is- well, gruesome, but informative. Even in that pit of screaming and wailing. Men were crying for their mothers and pleading to be shot to end the suffering. Even in amongst all that I could tell that something had changed. The staccato of the French guns changed, and I could hear a growling from inside the city. From inside. I dared to hope that it meant the 3rd or 5th divisions had breached the walls with their ladder parties. I don't think anyone had expected success from that quarter until that point. I gathered my men, and saw just how many had died, but I gathered them none the less. I let them know that they only had to attack once more, one more time and we would have victory. I was praying to God the whole time that I was not lying to them.”

“My company followed me up the breach, many other men followed us, as they had with other attempts. I have found out since, that the French were now fighting on two fronts, the 5th and 3rd had both made it in, and were attacking them from the inside, so the defenders were distracted.”

“I made my way up the breach. It was steep,” Here he nodded at Singer, his eye's seeming to re-engage with the present. Singer raised an eyebrow in acceptance of the not-quite-accusation. “I slipped on blood, on entrails, I stood on men's legs and chests, because the stones were obscured with the dead. I felt the insanity of it all. My blood was pounding in my ears. I could no longer hear anything. I knew I had my men with me, and for this, I could not be in better company.”

Novak sighed, yet again, seeming to come back to himself. “In all honesty, I do not remember too much of the next few minutes, or maybe it was hours. We some how fought on over the breach. There were men all around me.” He laughed ruefully. “I suppose if I'd pushed up that mountain of bodies more quickly I could have been the first over the breach. I'd certainly have made a name for myself then. Although, I would probably also be dead.” Here Singer watched the man shrug, an uncomfortable motion on his stiff frame, a contrast to his elegant speech. “From then on we were in the city. And, well, I'm sure you all know what happened then. My troops all but disappeared, fighting in to the tiny alleys. I fought hard. There were many French. It was not until a long time later that the madness subsided, for me, although it raged on around me. My company was either dead or killing French between high stone walls or drunk by then, hardly an hour or two after making it in to the city.”

“Exhaustion over came me quickly. I realised it would be pointless to hunt the city for my men, I just have to hope they did not pillage and rape, although I doubt they restrained themselves.” Novak sighed deeply, rubbing a hand across his face, the strain of retelling his battle showing through his stoic exterior. “I have been holed up with the Major and those officers who have resurfaced since. I wanted to find the men, but Adler ordered me to let the provosts do their job.” Novak looked up at the group surrounding him. He seemed surprised that the young ladies, apart from Miss Charlotte and Miss Joanna were all some distance away holding dainty handkerchiefs to their mouths, faces white. The young men, aside from the Lieutenant who had asked about the battle, were surrounding the ladies, fanning them and offering their support. The lieutenant's face was blanched and clammy looking though, as if keeping his wine down was causing problems. Novak looked as if he was trying not to laugh suddenly, despite his anguished expression. “I'm sorry, but you did ask. I hope you enjoy the artillery dugouts more in the future.” With that the lieutenant bowed and followed his friends in to the crowd.

-

Novak felt sick. Retelling the battle to a group of impressionable ladies and overly well fed officers had not been his intention that night. He knew he should have held back, for their delicate sensibilities, but he was a soldier, and he was damned if they were expecting him to be anything but. He watched as the two more robust girls smiled at him and, neither looking at all troubled by his story, curtsied and drifted away in to the room. Singer looked at him with compassionate but level eyes. “You're tough, Captain, I compliment you.” Singer nodded before offering his hand to his wife, who also nodded, smiling sadly at Novak, before they left to join the dance together.

Suddenly, left alone, he felt an even greater disgust for his surroundings. Only a few days ago he'd looked in to the still warm, dead eyes of a man, as he stood on his skull to push up in to the jaws of death served to him by the French. Now he was surrounded by dancing men, sweating sweet wine, while they seduced women, and young ladies flirting back in their see-through gowns, nipples painted as red as their lips, and reminding him only of blood and death. 

The horrors of war seemed to have been forgotten simply because of a victory, however hard fought and dearly bought it had been. He could not stand it any longer. Hoping his Major would not see him leave, he picked another glass of wine from a servant's tray, downed it in one long swallow, lifted another then went to find fresh air or solitude. He had a headache.


	3. Chapter 3

Novak pushed the heavy door open in the eerily quiet hall way. After the cloying smell of sweat, wine and perfume filling the golden lit, smoky ball room, and the trilling of instruments clamouring over the chatter of so many mouths, the stillness was heavenly. He hadn't been able to squeeze out the entry way, not under the quizzical eye of Major Adler, he had, however, been able to slip out an unobtrusive door in the rear of the room. After trying several doorways, this one seemed a likely place to sip his wine in peace and try to reclaim his calm. 

He had found a billiard room. Unaware that it was a Spanish past time, he wondered if perhaps this building had been owned by a British aristocrat with trade links in the region. Maybe before the war had criss crossed the country. The fine building had been ransacked, with no paintings or furnishings remaining. Hope for any silver or gold was laughable. Even the wallpaper had been ripped from the walls in places. He was surprised this billiard table was intact. Perhaps the Provosts found the property first and guarded it as Wellesley's operation base against the rabble that been the British Army before they had cascaded through the city walls. Badajoz had broken the army, had killed it by the man in their hundreds, so the survivors had wanted to kill the city in return. Three days the men and raped, burned, drank, fought, stolen and desecrated their way through the city. And, Novak thought with a twist of fury in his gut, his God-damned Major had denied him permission to find the troops of his Company, had not even allowed him to find out whether they had obeyed the general order to respect the natives. He hoped they had, but men were men and they had died for this city, and so they would drink until they could not see, fuck until they could not feel, thieve until they felt rich, and fight until there was no one left to kill. He could not blame his men for that.

Novak sighed. He had felt out of place in that large glittering ball room. Not because he was American and considered a little beyond the pail, he was as finely dressed as any of them, he was no poorer than many of them, his manners as exquisite as the best of them. No, he'd felt out of place because, until he had asked the enchanting Miss Charlotte to dance, and been introduced to her Step-father in turn, he had felt like the only man in the building to have any proper emotion towards the situation they were in. How could they all dance and flirt and swoon when, just outside a gibbet had been erected to help bring control to an army that had turned riot for three days after losing close to half of their entire number during the period of a few weeks, mostly in the past few days. The people in there were insensitive and ignorant and unfeeling. Novak did not want to waste his time with such people. He may not be close to his men, he may not be liked, he may be a hard officer to be commanded by, but he'd rather be with his men just then. They may be uncouth, uneducated, vile and crude but they were honest. He couldn't fault them for that.

As these thoughts were swirling his head, Novak had been slowly circling the hushed room, vacantly taking in the billiard table from all angles, sipping his slightly sour, too warm wine. He bent to take in the complex set of pipes running under the table to the wall, which was displaying a mechanical score board for the game. It wasn't until he crouched down on his haunches to inspect where the pipes led from under the table that he saw something that made every thought in his head flee. 

At the far end of the room, beyond the table, on the floor, lying at a distinctly unnatural angle, was a body. 

Novak raised himself up slowly, using the hand holding the wine glass to steady himself against the edge of the billiard table. After the past few months fighting in Spain, it was hard to mistake a corpse for an unconscious man. This was no drunken stupor. Novak edged around the baize covered table, thoughts crashing about his head like storm laden waves. Who was it? Why now? Why here? It hadn't been difficult for unpopular officers to be killed by their men during the sacking of the city. So why kill one in this place? Should he raise the alarm or identify the man first?

His stream of internalised questions stopped abruptly when the door banged open revealing a small group of drunk, grinning officers, clamouring about playing a game of billiards “while all the fillies are dancing.” Novak irrelevantly sneered at their attitude, before suddenly coming to the conclusion that; one: he must have drunk more than he thought, because; two: he would never have allowed himself to be found in such an incriminating situation if he had been sober.

He ran his fingers through his hair and watched on mutely while the ridiculously bawdy officers circled the table. He almost laughed aloud when one of them yelped and another squeaked, honest to God, squeaked when they discovered the body. 'Definitely drank too much' he absently thought as he tried to school his features in to something a little more innocent than a smirk. It was then that three of the men turned slowly, seeming to notice him for the first time. The last soldier followed their gaze, his eyes widening in surprise before flicking his slow gaze back to the body, then back to Novak. His face blanched, mouth wide. He fled the room. 

-

Singer twitched his head up in an almost imperceptible movement when he saw the white faced young man rush in to the room gesticulating wildly. He stumped over near to Major Adler, where the ashen lieutenant was babbling. He rolled his eyes and grunted when the soldier started squawking about finding a murderer in the act, and how they had discovered a body run through, blood cooling under and around him.

The Major, as seemed to be his style, became excessively quiet, and ordered the flustered boy back to the room in a harsh voice, a grim set to his mouth. Adler followed the boy, Singer followed Adler. He quickly swept his eyes about the room looking for the intense but intelligent Captain, hoping for a sane voice to join his. A sinking feeling ran through his gut as he remembered watching the dark haired man slope out of the doors they were now walking toward. Novak wasn't stupid enough to kill a man at a ball after a major battle, surely? Singer thought he had a read on the man, and if Novak were to murder someone, (a possibility he didn't write off entirely,) he'd be cleverer about it.  
He snorted at his own thoughts. Novak was certainly capable, but he'd detected a stubborn streak of honour running through the man. If he'd had an issue, it is more likely he would have heard of the American duelling at dawn, not sneaking off to murder someone in- a billiard room, it seemed.

On entering the room Singer took it all in. Captain Novak was standing at the far side of the room staring at the body, which he presumed was hidden behind the corner of the unreasonably large billiard table. He had never understood the sport himself. Novak's face was white and staring, but with little to take in expression-wise. He was surrounded by three similarly paled lieutenants who had their swords out facing him. The boy who had alerted Adler was standing near the door while the Major strode towards the corpse.

Adler looked up sharply at Novak then, his eyes narrowing. “Novak. You are under arrest. I knew you were ambitious, but I had no idea. Running Bass through. Well done for becoming the most senior Captain in the Battalion, Novak, and after only four months in the army too.” Adler turned away from the still staring Captain. “Take him away.” He ordered to the lieutenants who still surrounded Novak.

“Mr Adler, Sir” Singer spoke up. Something wasn't right. Novak still had his own sword, his grip flexing repeatedly on the distinctive hilt until his knuckles were white. If Novak had killed the deceased Captain Bass, who, now he had moved around the baize covered table, clearly had a sword sticking straight up in to the air, gripped tightly between two of Bass' ribs, he'd have to have been carrying two swords for the whole evening. A circumstance it was clear had not taken place.

There was a tacky looking pool of blood surrounding the body. He knelt. Congealed. The body was cooling too. Not cold, but he must have been dead far longer than the time that Novak had been out of the main ball room.

“I don't believe that Novak here is your man, Sir.” Adler turned, a furious expression planted squarely on his broad features. “And, who Sir, might you be?” Adler sneered.

“I, Sir, am Robert Singer, Captain of engineers, and aide to Wellesley.” Adler’s eyes widened. Clearly he had worked out that he wasn't some wet behind the ears hick. Adler knew of him. The words 'and head of intelligence' went unsaid, as such a title did not really exist, but everyone who knew something about something, knew who Bobby Singer was, by description, if not name.

The smarmy man before him was obviously uncomfortable. Adler coughed before squaring his shoulders. “Can I ask why you think such a thing? Novak is my officer, I can do with him as I see fit.”

“Yes, Sir, You can. But I would have thought after the débâcle you led your Battalion through four nights ago, you would be loath to loose any more officers, especially one as promising as young Novak over there.”

Singer noted, as he swung his gaze back to the Captain, that the man wasn't staring at the body in shock, as he had previously thought, but a little way above it. At the hilt of the sword impaled in the body below it. Singer caught Novak's eyes flick from the murder weapon to the one in his hand, still sheathed in his scabbard. His own eyes traced the movement. The swords were identical.

That was interesting.

“Major Adler, the body is cooling rapidly, it's too cool for the murder to have taken place within the past hour or so. Novak has been talking with me much of the night, and dancing with my daughter prior to that. The blood is congealed if you want further proof. Not to mention the sword-”

Signer was cut off by a gasp and a horrified look from the tall and well dressed Captain Novak.

“Ah. Yes. The sword. Pre-meditated was it? Why are there two? Stash a spare somewhere? Take his sword!” Singer rolled his eyes. “Idjit” he muttered under his breath, too quietly for anyone else to catch. 

“Without more evidence you cannot arrest or court-martial this man Adler. I know he's your man, but will you give me leave to question him before proceedings go further?” Singer, doing his up most to be courteous, asked. Adler would be well within his rights to refuse, but he hoped that he could dominate the week Major by being reasonable and quiet enough to put him off his guard.

“Er, well. Um. I suppose. As Wellesley's aide. I mean-” The Major stuttered his way through his sentence before Singer cut him off with; “Excellent. Thank you Major Adler. I will question him in my rooms. My man is about somewhere. You can ask him for details if you require Novak for anything.”

With that he stomped from the room, indicating to the still white faced Novak, now sword-less, to follow him out of the doors.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this chapter isn't as long as I'd like and will almost certainly receive an edit in the near future. I'll try to get it done before the next chapter goes up!
> 
> This chapter has been edited to V.2 now!

Novak blinked slowly, his focus on nothing. Colours swirling against fear and bile. Singer's voice slowly started to make it through his bewildered and scattered thoughts as his vision coalesced to form a bearded face. Eyes glinting at him, penetrating through the bewildered fear. Kind and irritated smirk hidden beneath the whiskers on his face.

The sword. _His_ sword.

“Captain. Y'listenin' to me? Why were there two swords huh? I know you didn't have a second one earlier in the night. You didn't hide one did you? I don't take you for that kind of a fool.” Singer's gruff tones snapped his attention back to the moment. The considering, yet not accusing face of the old Engineer taking his measure of him, now fully focused in his sights. He felt his hand automatically gripping for the hilt of his missing sword, his fingers finding air instead of the familiar worn leather, steal, copper and stones. 

“It's mine.” He stated finally, unhelpfully. He blinked then continued. “The one run through Bass. That was mine. The one I was wearing all night? I think that must have been a copy.” He was trying to remember. The events of the evening now confused, doubt and worry making him analyse everything that had happened since tumbling through the breach not much more than seventy-two hours previously. “I- Well, when I buckled up the slings I thought it felt wrong, the weight, and the hilt was different, but I put it down to- I don't know. Exhaustion, or the fighting, or the wine. It's not as if you expect to have your sword swapped for a replica in general is it? But, I had the real sword before and during the battle. I know that much.” He was starting to rant now. But he couldn't stop. It was not the shock of finding his fellow Captain dead, glassy eyed and having bled out on the floor, it was the shock of realisation that his sword, _his sword_ , had been copied. To frame him? Very few people could have had the sword copied with out the original as a template. The cheap toy they'd pulled from his scabbard had looked fine with a cursory glance, but once he'd been focused on it, he knew it wasn't his beloved blade. It made him sick.

“I think someone is framing me.” Novak knew Singer must have been as confused as all hell by this statement. “Adler? Why'd he wanna do that?” Yes, Singer would assume that that was who he was talking about, Novak thought. He felt himself slip away again, eyes staring, trying to work through the events, find the reasoning behind it all. “Shit. Son, take a slug o' this.” Singer held his flask out to him, sighing. Novak didn't even blink, taking a large gulp and swallowing it all down.

About one and a half seconds later he realised his mistake. What Singer had been sipping all evening was apparently some new weapon, designed to melt you from the inside out. He started coughing hard, his eyes watering, a burn inching down his gullet. He knew he was red in the face. “There we go.” Singer muttered. “Jesus! What in hell is that!?” He challenged in return. Singer just chuckled, seating him self in a chair across from the desk Novak was standing leant against, his hands now dripping the old wood, knuckles white as he fought for breath.

While he stood there, wheezing with eyes streaming from the harsh liquor still burning his throat he took in the room. Singer may only have been billeted here for a matter of days, but Novak was impressed. No chests of silverware or dress clothes and corsets. The man, though my no means lean, was clearly rock solid, probably only had one formal uniform, the rest, going by the blue jacket slung over the end of the bed frame, was dusty and worn. His bicorn hat had seen better days. There was a pipe, and two or three bottles of what ever the hell spirit it was that he'd given him to drink. This man travelled like the soldier he was and not some fop attending a ball every other evening to pick a pretty wife and settle down in the country seat. Singer had his respect.

The Engineer's silence remained. He just caught his eye and raised an eyebrow, waiting for Novak to speak. Instead he took took a deep breath, wondering if this is where it would end. His quest to escape his family, to be his own man, thwarted by that very past. He rubbed his hand through his hair, with no idea of how many times he had done it that night, it's neat parting from earlier probably more closely resembling a bird's nest at this point. Singer's eyes were still steady on his face, unwavering; waiting.

“I'm not sure when the swords were swapped, I'm assuming when I was washing in my chamber, I left the sword on the cot. Again, this is assumption but I'm fairly sure of who did it. Or, at least who ordered it. I don't think Adler has anything to do with it, Sir. My sword is custom made by a sword smith back home. I designed it and commissioned it. It is unique. I have not been in the army here long, and therefore I am willing to bet money that no one outside of my- uh.” He here stumbled over the words, the meaning behind them twisted and wrong. “Um, my family would know it. It may be distinctive, but not so ornate as to attract attention. I do not understand how, but I can't shake the feeling that a Milton has tried to frame me. The two branches of our family, the er, Novaks and Miltons, do not exactly get on. There is-” He looked at Singer dead in the eye, hoping that the gruff and quiet man in front of him would not question things further. “-History.” 

Singer stood up, turning away from him. “So. You're tellin' me that you got some damn stupid family feud goin' on meaning that one of 'em has tried to frame you for murder?” The older man's features expressed exasperation and irritation, when he turned back to face Novak, arms folded against his chest. Yet, Novak didn't think it was genuine censure, there was a hint of humour glinting in the man's bearded face. He rolled his eyes at the Captain while the man glared at the floor. He was amused and mildly offended by the man's summary of his family history and current circumstances, but he accepted the concise view of things. “It looks that way sir, yes.”

“Hmpf.” The man huffed. “I take it you didn't know any of them were out here?” The engineer fixed Novak with his calculating gaze. Novak found he could not look away.

“No Sir.” He thought he'd left that episode of his life entirely behind him.

“Right.” Singer sighed out, as if clearing up other people's messes was a regular and unwanted occurrence for him. Although, Novak thought, with a daughter or two like Miss Charlotte, maybe it was. “You need to find a new billet. You need to find your men. I'll enquire about this Milton. First name?” He asked gruffly.

Novak gave it a moments thought. The Miltons were not a small family. “If he's in the army? He'd have to be of suitable age, so that's Marvin out. There's Malachai, maybe. Or Bartholomew. Perhaps Theodore. No, he'll still be too young. Ephraim? But, either way we're looking for an American, not too many of those in Spain at the moment.” He said raising an eyebrow in response to Singer's own, who laughed at the rejoiner. “You have a point, Son. I'll send my man out when he shows up, the lazy bastard. Have him ask a few questions for you.”

“I'm grateful.” He meant it. He wanted to make a name for himself, that was sure, but preferably not at the wrong end of a firing squad.

“Yeah, now get. Find rooms and some men. If anyone comes lookin' I'll send 'em to your old quarters. Send word to me when you have a place to sleep. Be discrete, boy.” His voice remained quiet, in it's earthy growl until he turned and yelled toward the door. “Fitzgerald!”

A tentative knock on the door a few moments later announced Fitzgerald's arrival, and the young aide tumbled in to the room. Without any ado whatsoever, not even waiting for the scrawny Lieutenant to salute, Singer launched right in. “Go and enquire at headquarters proper about a man named Milton, an American. Do not let everyone know what you're about. I don't want the whole God-damned army to know by sunrise. I need his position, his lodging, anything you can find out about him. If there is no information about him at headquarters, ask the Provosts. He may not be a soldier in this army. Might even be a civilian. Go.”

“Yes Sir!” The man squeaked out his reply, a carefree smile adorning his features. Singer did not withhold from rolling his eyes fondly at the man's back.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, the scene at the end of this chapter didn't quite inspire the story as such, but I wrote it to work this scene in. I hope you all enjoy it!
> 
> On a different note, I have seemingly made a [Tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/anonymousantonym) for myself. I have no idea what to do with it, so feel free to follow me in order to mock me or whatever.

Novak found himself, still in the clothes from the ball, sidling out of the back door of his billet. Most of the remaining officers in his division were still at the ball. There was no one around to see him leave. He found himself in a high walled alley filled with horse shit, a drum, two discarded French muskets and who knows what else detritus left from battle, he headed for the most filth filled end, hoping to lose himself among the claustrophobic lanes and scarred buildings. 

Before leaving Singer's rooms, the aide, Fitzgerald, had returned with the news that there was a Milton in the army, a Barty Milton, supposedly, but he could not get a straight answer from anyone as to what the man's role was. Aide, advisor or ambassador were the closest he had got. Apparently there was no information on file as to where the man's billet might be either. Singer had thanked the keen young man and sent him away before digesting the information.

Bartholomew Milton it was, but where Bartholomew Milton might be at this point, no one knew.

He could not help the thrill of anger and the squirming sense of repulsion that ran through him.

He had lost track of time completely when he found an abandoned house, not too fouled, where he could stay. He had had to duck in to door ways and skirt pools of light from bivouacs to avoid detection as he wondered the city in search of a billet sufficiently out of the way of both soldiers and natives. There was no food, fuel nor furnishings in the ramshackle building, but at this point a hint of solitude and privacy was all he desired. He ascended to the first floor and dropped his pack in a corner. His pack was a cause for much levity amongst his fellow officers who travelled with a full mule train of chests filled with complete table services, clothing, richly embroidered blankets, gold plated shaving sets and more. Novak did have one chest. It had nothing of value in it aside from his dress uniform. In it he kept some spare shirts and trousers and some books. He was not a poor man, despite abandoning his family; all that they stood for and all that they had, including their money. But, they were too proud to have someone fight overseas bearing their name and be forced to strip corpses on the battle field just to pay the mess bills. No, and he was not too proud to take their money for the time being. Not that he spent most of it on anything they would expect. When he could, he helped to add to the meagre portions rationed out to the men, not that he would ever let them know either, but starving soldiers could not fight. Anything remaining from the family's funds and his army pay went in to investments in America and England alike. He'd been away from his family for around eight months, and in another four or so he wouldn't need the money they were sending him to keep his head down and disappear from their notice. We would send their guilt laced, bribery riddled money back to them.

He eyed his new billet briefly, attention landing back on the haversack. The pack was almost the same as that of each and every man of the rank and file in the army. He had no servant, not because he could not afford it, but because he couldn't stomach it. He wanted to fight, he wanted to be his own man, and waking up and having someone brush his hair, shave his face, sharpen his sword and saddle his horse was not what he wanted for him self. His one ostentation, his one great expense was his horse. Being of the light company he did not ride her in to battle. Hael was a temperamental nag, but she was fine and strong, and she ate up the miles, saving his feet from the blisters his men suffered with. She was one of the few nods to the comfort that his class and rank afforded him. 

Leaving his pack hidden in a dark corner next to the chimney breast he went in search of an inn. He needed to find a boy to send to Signer to let him know where he was based now, he also needed food and wine. He wasn't going to spend the night sleeping on the floor of some empty house which had blood smeared across the boards without something to lull him to sleep with. He also needed to find his men.

The closest inn, in an even less salubrious area of the city than his billet, was filled with men from another company. He found an Ensign and asked if he new where his light company had been lodged. The man answered in the negative, but suggested looking in an area near one of the churches. He had heard that there were light troops there. 

Before leaving in search of his men he begged some bread from the man, who handed a hunk over with only a slight frown. He needed something to soak up the wine from the ball, and it was late. If he couldn't find his men, he'd need to rise early to search for them, and he didn't fancy waking up with a hangover caused by a gnawing stomach. He hadn't had a chance to eat at the ball and his stomach was already churning.

He grabbed a small urchin by his ragged collar before slipping out the door toward the church. Rattling off in quick Spanish that the boy could have a coin if ran an errand for him. The boy nodded, and took the note he had scrawled for Singer. He told the boy to find him at his new quarters once he had done as asked to receive his coin, he hoped that no one intercepted the boy to find his whereabouts. He wasn't strictly under arrest, but Signer was supposed to keep an eye on him for Adler until they'd decided if they had enough proof to put him under guard. Adler was petty, and liked to throw discipline about, whether deserved or not. He had already seen too many floggings of the men in his months in Spain so far. Almost always undeserved. Blacked boots and starched stocks were hardly necessary on campaign. Adler disagreed. 

He found him self in the shadow of a church, the one the Ensign had indicated. It was huge and ornate, but nothing to some of the churches in the city. By the light of a large fire banked in a square outside the entrance he could see in to the cavernous interior. It would have been breath taking if not for the sacking it had received in the past few days. The English did not respect the religion of the country they fought for. If the French had left anything of value in the building, the British army surely would have stripped the last of it by now. He could see the corpse of a nun, bent and broken, slumped in the isle.

On the scored and scratched houses facing the square he could see the chalked markings denoting who was using the property as a billet. The markings, sitting above the faded numbers of the French and a set of other obscure scrawling, were not of his men. There was a constant thrum of conversation, singing and revelry coming from a side street which, he assumed, meant an inn. He headed there hoping to find an officer, or anyone who could point him in the direction of his sorely diminished Regiment. It must have been close to two in the morning, but the men were still taking advantage of copious amounts of bad wine and a warm fire since sacking the city, before they marched back on hard roads with cold night air and orders of silence.

At the inn, a Scottish Sergeant eyed his dress uniform curiously, before pointing him in the right direction, muttering something about idiot officers wanting to get robbed in dark alleys. Novak sighed. It wasn't the first time that he'd been underestimated. He could look after himself, silk shirt or not. It was a thirty minute walk across the city to find his Company. There were three houses and an inn's courtyard and stable that had been requisitioned for their use. Men were snoring out in the open about a large fire that was still burning high in the centre of the yard. He scanned the space. He knew, despite this being the first time he had seen his company since they evaporated amongst the twisting streets of the city on the last night of the siege, that there were no Lieutenants left. It was one of the reasons he had fought so hard against Adler's insistence that he stay at headquarters. His men had no leader, no one organising them, and it showed. They were drunk. Past drunk. At least that meant that they weren't still trying to destroy everything about them. He spotted his last remaining Ensign. Practically a child, snoring loudly in the just outside the circle of firelight. It had been unlikely that the boy would have been able to stand up to the men, they were older, more experienced, more assured. The boy would have had to have had nerves of steal to try and curtail their desperate need to drown out the events of the siege, he could not find it in himself to blame him or the men.

“Driel” He barked out, not so loudly as to wake every man in the yard, although he certainly could have done if he wished to. Alfred Driel carried on in blissful slumber. Novak did not have the patience to be kind. Kicking, not too hard, his ensign in the ribs whilst grating out his name again got a snort and a yelp, eyes wide in surprise and a drunken disbelief. The boy scrambled to his feet, recognition finally sinking in to his expression. He looked completely bewildered and worse for wear, coat and shirt open across his scrawny chest, boots off, hat in the straw next to him, a chicken feather stuck in amongst the plume. The man had probably been drinking as hard as the men. He tried to draw himself to attention, failing miserably, swaying on his feet, shoulders hunched and eyed squinting blearily against the light. Novak refrained from rolling his eyes at Driel's sorry attempt.

“I need a detail of men, Ensign. Who is the most senior sergeant now?” It took too long for the Ensign to wake up sufficiently to answer. “Ensign!” He barked again. His mood was too sour to deal with useless officers. The tone of his voice finally got through to the ensign. He could hear his men start to rouse around him as Driel stuttered out his answer. “W-Winchester, Sir.”

“I take it we lost Donalds then?” Damn, he thought. Donalds had been a good Sergeant, had been close to one of the Lieutenants who had died on the breach too. He didn't know Winchester. But, Winchester it would have to be. The man had been in the Company before he had bought his commission, and was therefore more experienced in this country and this war than he was. Hopefully he'd be sufficiently loyal to the company to help him on this less than official mission

“Donalds died before we even found the breach Sir. Ricochet.” The man looked forlorn. Ensigns may be officers, but they were typically taken under the wing of a Sergeant, taught the ropes by someone who knew it all, had seen it all. Novak had trusted Donalds to do the honours for the young Ensign. Now the man looked lost. 

“Damn.” His voice was softer now. He had no desire to upset the young Ensign. “You've done well Driel. Rest up with the men this evening. I am taking a detail of men with me for a few days. I'm not sure how long. You're in charge until I return. Do not let the men tell you what to do. Get them doing basic drill, nothing strenuous. Get them cleaned up too. Make sure they have rations. I think the quartermaster is somewhere near headquarters. Tell, don't ask, tell him what the men need. If another officer from the Battalion comes with orders listen to them. Try to get word to me via a man called Singer if you are ordered to move out. Understood?”

Driel rattled the orders back to him, showing that he under stood. “Good man, now where is Winchester?”

Driel blushed and looked awkward, something Novak had no time to give a damn about. “Ensign.”

“He's above. In the inn, Sir.” He nodded up to an open window above the entrance to the inn. Novak signed internally. He couldn’t be doing with a jumped up sergeant, who had ideas above his station, taking a room when his men and an officer slept in the yard on straw meant for horses.

He marched toward the inn, glaring at any of his men foolish enough to meet his eye. The rooms above were mostly filled with men asleep or still drinking. It made him wonder why Driel had taken a spot outside, until he realised that the man had probably passed out out there. He hadn't really taken in the empty rum bottle by the man's foot until he had turned away. There were a number of doors which were closed, the first held a room of sleeping women, natives by the look of them, perhaps rescued from the madness of the sacking by the men. Not many of the Battalion's wives would have been allowed in to the city yet. Another held a man and women snoring into each others faces under a pile of blankets on the floor. The third held a lean women with long dark hair energetically straddling a man. The man in question was thrusting up in to her from his position below at a punishing rate.

From the angle he was at he couldn't be sure who it was, he wasn't especially well acquainted with the bare legs and balls of the men of his Company. He walked in to the room, not bothering to hide his presence. Sure enough though, the cropped dirty blond hair of his most senior Sergeant came in to view around the bouncing breasts of the tanned woman atop him. “Ahem.” He cleared his throat. 

“Shit!” The man grunted out. “Fuck!”

“Quite.” Novak answered dryly. “I'd order you to stand to attention but I can see you already are.” He dead-panned, raising his eyebrow in the direction of the now completely still couple. 

Winchester didn't move but forced out a slightly higher pitched “Sir” while he bit his lip, clearly in some...distress. Novak tilted his head, his amusement at Winchesters discomfort entirely internalised. “I need to speak to you Sergeant. I'll see you in the bar below.” Before he reached the door he turned on his heel. He inclined his head in a slight bow. “Miss.” He said in farewell to the girl biting her lip, trying not to laugh by the look of it. Turning again he threw over his shoulder “You have five minutes Winchester.”


	6. Chapter 6

The girl, who had sneaked through the city walls after the siege in pursuit of the same treasures as the men, namely money, jewels and a good pair of boots, was one of the Battalion's women. There were many unmarried girls who followed the army. Pam was a free spirit, but hard and strong and took no shit from men like Winchester. Which was why Winchester liked her. Not _liked_ , he had no intention to marry, but they had fun. They knew where they stood. When the door had shut behind the Captain, and the sound of his tread had been swallowed by the noise of the inn, Pam had burst out laughing, wiggling her hips against Winchester's pelvis. Winchester would have found the situation amusing too had he not been on the edge of orgasm when his damned Captain had made his presence felt. Bastard. 

“Shit Pam.” He grunted as he flipped her over on to her back in one smooth movement. He held her ankles high and wide, and pummelled in to her, bringing his only slightly softened manhood back to full force in seconds. The amused grin on her face was quickly replaced with a lust filled smirk. Yes, they had fun. “Jesus. _Dean_.” She groaned out, voice a breathy whisper. “Come on sugar, harder.” Winchester grinned lopsidedly, and did and she asked. 

-

“So, the Captain looked...” Pam hesitated, her lips around a cigarette that he had twisted together from the loose leaves in his ammunition pouch, clearly searching for the words. He had one and a half minutes remaining by his reckoning. “He looked like he had a stick up his ass, like he always does. You'd think walking in on, well, _that_ , might have forced _some_ reaction out of him huh? But, I guess not. Made outta stone that one.” Winchester replied. “What's he here for anyway? He doesn't bother to show up until now, we died for him and the bastard comes looking for us _now_.” Pam looks him squarely in the eye, still naked, lying against the blankets on the floor. “Maybe he had things to do?” She replied, shrugging. 

Winchester looks at her sceptically. “He was dressed like he was going whoring in Hyde Park. He's not a soldier Pam, he's an officer. Just because he's an American does not mean I have to like him. He's stuck up, he thinks he's better than us because he's rich, and better then the English officers because he doesn't have a servant. What kind of officer is he huh? I'm not sure how he survived that bloody breach, but the Lieutenant was a good man. _He_ shouldn't have died. And now we have no God-damned buffer between us and him. We'll be doing fucking drill tomorrow, you'll see.”

Pam sighed and leant back, blowing out smoke at the stained ceiling. “He is handsome though.” Winchester threw her dress at her as he stood, pulling on his shirt. “Yeah, you can dream Pam, you can dream. Go ahead and try. I doubt he'd notice you were flirting, he's so self absorbed.” He laughs at the concept of Pam trying to seduce the stiff and formal Captain. The tall, dark haired man with his neckerchiefs and starched collar, and Pam, with her filthy mouth and salacious eyes. 

He buttoned up his jacket, slinging his cross belts across his chest and buckling them too. “Come on, can't keep the _handsome_ Cap' waiting eh?” 

Pam, having passed the remains of the cigarette to Winchester, stood upright, shoulders flung back proudly as she pulled up her ragged dress. Winchester, smoke drifting from his nose as he breathed out, stooped to button up the back of the dress. He turned toward the door, a wicked smirk across his face as he slapped her arse before dancing out of reach around the door. 

-

The bar of the tavern was just as loud and crowded as it was when he'd pulled Pam up the narrow staircase to the cramped room above. He would admit to being mortified that his commanding officer had found him in such a compromising position, but he really wasn't bothered, even with Novak's blank, bored stare boring in to him. It _was_ , however, a little unnerving how little his officer, supposedly a _gentleman_ , didn't seem to care one iota. His impression of the immaculate Captain Novak was that fucking, suppurating wounds and bad language would probably put him in to a dead faint. Two down, one to go he supposed.

“Sir.” He stood to attention, properly, this time, and stared the obligatory three inches over the Captain's left ear, sufficient to look attentive, whilst showing an appropriate amount of disregard for his officer.

The Captain was sipping slowly from a mug of wine, and looked entirely disinterested in Winchester's subtle disdain. 

“You're late.” Novak's face was blank. Serious. He'd watched him pounding in to a girl not more than ten minutes ago, both of them naked as the day there were born. No reaction. No blush. Nothing. 

Made. Of. Stone.

Winchester did not deign to answer more than another “Sir.”

Novak who loomed, despite being a couple of inches shorter than his own intimidating six foot two, tilted his head to the side, seeming to analyse his sergeant. Winchester was too experienced with dealing with any number and type of officer and just stayed at attention, back strong and straight, eyes fixed on a point beyond the Captain. He absently noted that the man's impeccable appearance was somewhat marred by the messy hair, ashen features and glassy eyes. Suddenly his mild apprehension that he was going to be ordered to rouse the men, drunk as they were, and get them on parade at God knows what time of the morning, sank in to a ball of dread in his gut that something much worse had or was happening. Being a seasoned soldier, he knew that they were not under attack, the city would be alive with the noises of men rousing, of fighting, gunfire, shouting. All was still quiet, aside from the continued revelries of the companies still not under the close eye of an officer.

“I require you to arrange a detail of men, for a-.” Novak hesitated, running his hand through his already disarrayed hair. Winchester didn't know what to think. The man was always so stoic and distant, such a display of emotion jarred with his interpretation of the man. “For a, um, not entirely sanctioned mission. I cannot order you and the men to, uh, to follow me on this, but I would appreciate it. I only need three or four men I should think, and your self. It is a, well, more of a personal mission. I- Er, I can't order you. If you refuse I will respect your decision and nothing more will come of it, I can only ask that you do not repeat this conversation to anyone.”

Novak's voice was as strong and self assured as ever, but the stumbling over his words hinted that something much deeper seemed to be going on. Winchester was at a loss. His officer was asking for his help. The puffed up arrogant bastard wanted _his_ help.

In the one or two seconds of silence while he took a moment to formulate his answer his thoughts flew. They flew back to this city, a year ago. To the last time they'd fought on the breaches of bloody Badajoz. He couldn't understand why. Why would a plea from an officer, a prig of one at that, send his thoughts to Sammy. 

Something flared in his inner vision. _Sammy_. Novak was asking for a favour, maybe he could ask one in return.

“May I speak freely Sir?” Novak raised a tired looking eyebrow. “You may.”

“It seems to me that you need help, Sir. As of yet, I don't know what you're asking of me and my men, but I wonder Sir, if we were to help you Sir, maybe you could help me too?”

Novak's gaze hardened. His stance had been stiff, weary, but somehow he became poker straight, hard lines and braced shoulders. He seemed to stop breathing. His blue eyes, Winchester suddenly saw them for the first time, became hard as ice. He flicked his gaze back to the spot above his ear again.

“State your terms and I will assess whether it is worth my while Sergeant.” The man's deep voice was cold, dead, like the echo inside a tomb.

This was his chance. He didn't know if he was making the biggest of mistakes. It seriously depended on what had happened during the siege, on how much of a stickler Novak truly was, how petty, and if he would even say yes. But Novak was trusting him, asking him for help. Maybe he should do the same, he couldn't do it alone, that was for sure, and it was for _Sammy_.

“My, er. Well, during the last siege. My brother went missing.” Novak's eyes instantly softened, then clouded over in pity and back to their original hardness. “We left. Before we were allowed to search the breach for our wounded. It was the last night. And then we were marching, Sir. Um, I was a sergeant then too, I was meant to be looking out for him. He was there one second, and the next gone. I never saw him again. I know you'll think he's dead, Sir. I understand. But there was never any confirmation. Most of the other dead were listed eventually. We heard who had been wounded at least. But, Sammy was never on any list Sir, I checked. I just want to know for sure Sir. If it's possible, that is.

The Captain sighed. “It's not a big ask, Sergeant, I'll do what I can, but records of the dead and wounded from the last siege are-” He sighed, searching for words. It occurred to Winchester that Novak was somewhere very far beyond tired. “They are incomplete. They are a mess, quite frankly. Your brother is more than likely dead, I'm sorry to say. If he was wounded, and survived, he may have been taken in to the city. If he didn't return to the army, and had opportunity to do so, he's a deserter.” Winchester stiffened this time, anger flaming in his gut. Novak held up placating hands. “I understand, Winchester, there were hardly a great many options if the man survived. Trekking across the country alone to return to the Battalion would more than likely have got him killed from one side or the other if he was sighted.” He sighed deeply, closing his eyes as if hunting for strength within himself. “I will see what I can do, as I said.”

Winchester was unsure that he'd done the right thing, but Novak accepted that a charge of desertion was unfair, assuming he hadn't had a chance to rejoin. Maybe it would be all right.

“I- Thank you sir.”

Novak's only answer was a penetrating squint in his direction. “Quite. Now, I require something in return. As I said, three or four men, yourself, I will need you to come to my new lodgings first thing in the morning. Sober, if you will. I need to find a man.”

Winchester bit the inside of his cheek and genuinely couldn't stop himself. “If I'd have known that, Sir, I'd have put on more of a show earlier.” Novak didn't rise. The corner of his mouth _didn't_ quirk up, he _didn't_ blush. He didn't even roll his God-damned eyes. Seriously, he thought to himself. Stone.

On a deep exhale, as if he was controlling himself from simply walking away in defeat at his sergeant's childish behaviour, he continued his sentence. “Winchester, I need you to hep me find a man named Milton who tried, roughly three or four hours ago, to frame me for murder. I do not know what role he has in the army, but he is attached somehow. Headquarters has no known billet for him at this time. His name is Bartholomew, or Barty Milton. Tall, blond, and a sanctimonious bastard, if ever there was one.”

Winchester failed yet again to control himself around his superior officer, raising an eyebrow and biting his lip to avoid reacting more strongly. Novak, calling someone else sanctimonious? This Milton must be a piece of work.

“I need help finding him. I need help clearing my name. I believe he is the only person, at least on this continent, who could and would frame me specifically for murder, and if I don't deliver him, confessing his sins like a guilty Catholic, then I'm going to be court-marshalled and shot.”

“Will you help me Winchester?”


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ugh, there's probably a million, billion errors in this chapter. Sorry :( 
> 
> Otherwise, I hope you enjoy your tiny history lesson :)

Novak chewed the inside of his cheek as he awaited his sergeant's reply. The man was well within his rights to refuse, but he had asked for a favour in return, which he had agreed to. Now all he could do was stare at Winchester's face in the warm dark of the inn's public room whilst the man made his decision.

As he watched the Sergeant's features flicker between confusion, surprise and concern, Novak found himself wondering about the siege in which Winchester's brother was lost. The last battle for Badajoz was long, bloody and had ended with many men dead before the British army had retreated. Although he had not been a part of the army at the time, the aftermath of the failed campaign was still felt by the men. Brothers and friends and been killed, morale was still trying to recover. Retreat never felt so sour as when you had lost someone to no avail. 

General Beresford, who was commanding the Portuguese allies at the time, had set siege to the city in late April of 1811, and tried to force a surrender of Philippon, who commanded the French garrison. Philippon fended off Beresford's attacks. The army had let up the siege to fight another bloody battle in mid-May. Both sides had suffered horribly in that battle, but Beresford was the victor. Soult, who had commanded the French during that fight retreated East. Wellesley, marching in reinforcements, joined with, and took control of, the resumed siege. Due to the massive and modern fortifications progress had been slow. 

Nearing the end of the siege the men were set to attack the fort of San Cristobal. It had strategic importance to the taking of the city. After many, many dead and two failed attacks the men were sick of it. At that point Wellesley heard that in the East, Soult had met with Marmont, who commanded another wing of the French army. The huge French force threatened the small and demoralised British army, and Wellesley folded, choosing to withdraw and save his army from complete destruction. 

On the 10th June, there had been a truce in order to allow the British to remove their wounded. Novak could only assume that with their depleted numbers, and the imminence of their march the job had been a hurried affair. It was never pleasant. Winchester's brother had probably died. If he had been wounded he should have been brought back to the army. There was an extremely small chance he had been captured. In any scenario, if the man was alive, word ought to have found it's way back to Battalion.

His attention had wondered and he found himself staring at the blackened fireplace on the far side of the room. It had only been mere seconds since he had asked Winchester if he would help him. The man's face was impassive and hard, but something had changed. 

“Sir.” Winchester looked uncomfortable suddenly. “As you have agreed to help me with finding out what happened to Sammy, I'll help you.” Novak had to hold himself stiff else he crumple with relief. He had not realised how much he had wanted the strong, capable sergeant to be with him on this. Another sergeant may have done, but he somehow felt, for all his dislike of the man, that Winchester would not let him down. “But,” Winchester continued, taking a deep breath, “I want to know what the likelihood is that my men and I are all going to end up dead for this personal vendetta.”

He blanched angrily. “It is not a vendetta, Sergeant. It looks to be a vendetta against _me_ if anything. Either way, I cannot answer you. I do not know what we are up against. How many men Milton may have, or even why he has chosen to frame me. Murder I would not put beyond him, certainly, but why bother with an elaborate plot? The point remains that I am unsure of the details. We will just have to work together and hope for the best Winchester.”

-

Novak found himself back at his miserable, cold, empty hovel. The urchin he had sent off to Singer had been hovering in the foul street, eyes glinting in the dark, mirroring his own exhaustion. The child had delivered his message and told him that Singer acknowledged it. He had dropped the coin in the boys hand and told him to be off. He had scampered down the street and out of sight. Dawn was already beginning to make itself known, with an ugly green glow to the blue-black ink stained sky. He had told Winchester that he required sleep, and had asked him to join him at his new billet in the morning. He had given Winchester and his men permission to miss the morning drill that he had asked Driel to put the men through. Winchester had rolled his eyes at him for some reason as he had said that.

He dragged him self up the narrow and littered stair before he grabbed his pack from where he had dropped it earlier. Here, there was a single room with nothing in it aside from dead leaves, an empty fireplace and scorch marks where it looked as if what furniture there was, had been burnt in a fire which had escaped the grate. Blood stained the floor in an arc, brown and dry.

He dug through his heavy hide pack for the thin blanket that he kept in there, primarily for the horse usually, and untied his heavy greatcoat from the straps at the bottom. The pre-dawn night was not exactly cold, but there was a sharp breeze coming through the smashed window and down the soot smeared chimney. Leaving the blanket and coat on the floor in the warmest corner he leant back against the window casement and pulled his non-regulation, soft brown knee high leather boots from his feet. Black, stiff and polished boots were more common, but his boots were old, water tight from years of oiling and waxing the leather, and they were, above all else, comfortable. He dragged off his stained stockings. He never seemed to feel that keeping such items bleached particularly relevant in war. He unbuckled his empty scabbard, his cross belt, his belt and the epaulette holding the cross belt in place. Almost as one he dropped the pipe-clayed assemblage to the floor. His maroon sash fell in a soft heap by his feet. Staring in to the still moon lit alley he unbuttoned the fall front, tight, white breeches and peeled them off, down his legs, and he let them fall to the grubby planks with the belts and walked, in his cotton drawers, to the horse blanket in the shadowed corner. He dropped to his knees, the slanting moonlight casting monstrous silhouettes against the scuffed stone wall. His scarlet and gold frogged coat was shed next, the facings in startling white. He untied the black cravat wrapped around his throat and dropped the silk to the pile of clothing by his knee. The buttons of the high standing collar of his white silk shirt underneath were undone, leaving his throat and chest bared to the night air. Goose-pimples erupted across his skin, the breeze ruffling the light shirt against his shoulders and hard, flat stomach. 

Despite the cold he could not stand getting snagged up in his clothing during the night when he could avoid it. Shivering, he pulled the expensive shirt over his head, the last thin shield from the cold night air gone, and dropped it in the mound with his other clothes. He grabbed the heavy greatcoat and wrapped it about himself, clutching his arms to his naked, shivering torso and lay on the worn blanket, head against his pack. He would sleep a few hours, and when dawn proper broke, he would rise with the reveille and hunt down his would be ruin; Milton.

-

Novak did not awake with the bugle. If it was blown, he either slept through it, or he was too far away in the run down, poor district of the city. He was unsure what did wake him. He had been dreaming of his mother, a disgusted look on her face, and of his brother laughing at him as he boarded the ship, and then something brought him back to the cold room in the flat light of day, the smell of ash and soot strong in his nose. 

A touch gently nudged against his shoulder and a voice, low and quiet, “Sir.” He awoke properly, suddenly, with a start, and sat up, the miserable blanket falling to his lap, baring his chest and belly to whoever had awoken him. His hand scrabbled automatically at his hip for a sword that would not have been there even if he had been clothed.

It turned out to be Winchester who had brought him to consciousness so gently. The man looked slightly wild eyed at Novak's sudden transition from asleep to upright wakefulness. He rubbed grit out of his eyes before looking back up at the man, mumbling an apology to Winchester, despite being the one who was startled awake. 

He finally raised his eyes to meet those of the hovering Sergeant. “You look like shit Winchester.” His disturbed sleep had made him blunt, but vocal. It was true though. The Sergeant's eyes were hollow and dark ringed. He still smelt like a brewery, and clearly hadn't shaved. His coat was unbuttoned, the cross belts hanging from his hand. The musket, slung across the man's shoulder on the other hand, looked clean and well oiled. His ammunition pouch was belted to his side. He wasn't about to complain about the man's less than formal appearance if he tended his weapons well, especially as the man was essentially on an unsanctioned undercover mission, for him, personally.

-

Winchester stared up at the broken and smashed façade of the building that Novak had given him directions to the previous night. He could not believe that the gaudy, straight backed officer would willingly bunker down here. But then again, who said it was willing?

He left his three Privates and the Corporal outside in the alley while he went in the broken down front door. There was no evidence that anyone was there. Silence prevailed. He saw a pathetic set of stairs, all rickety and screaming protest at his weight, leading away to a room above.

In the far corner he discovered a lump under a black greatcoat, a shock of unruly dark hair resting on a French haversack. He knew Novak wasn't your run of the mill officer, and he wasn't sure if he derided the man, or respected him for owning a knapsack, and even more so for his knowing that the French made much better packs than the British.

“Captain, it's late Sir. Nine.” There was no response. They were late arriving, they had got lost amongst the ruins of this part of the city, near the walls, he had intended to meet his Captain at six. He couldn't hear the man's breathing and, under the thick layer of the great coat could not see any rhythm of in- and exhalation. He suddenly panicked. All for not particularly liking the man, he had no wish to find him dead of Lord knows what. Hunkering down, and fearing to find a knife sticking out of him, or a bullet wound and a pool of blood, he gently shook the Captain's shoulder. “Sir.”

It was only the many years of being at war, honing his balance and instincts that stopped him landing on his arse. Instead he managed to jump to his feet a good number of inches away from the suddenly sitting, half naked man in front of him. 

The Captain was wide eyed and startled, breathing suddenly heavily, his right hand unconsciously clenching at his hip where his sword hilt would have been. He started rubbing at his eyes when he realised there was no danger and muttered something in Winchester's general direction. Soon enough though, Novak raised his implacable gaze to rest on his face. “You look like shit Winchester” the Captain rumbled out, his voice roughened, even further than usual, by sleep.

Winchester had to bite his cheek to stop from smiling, the Captain was clearly not a morning person. “Well, Sir, I have to say, you're looking as radiant as ever.” Novak raised an eyebrow at him, but the only other response he got was a grunt and an eye roll. Sweet Jesus, he really needed to stop saying such inappropriate things to his Captain. “The, er, men are outside Sir, I'll, um, wait downstairs?” He made it a question, not daring to over step the line again after accidentally mocking his Captain. It just seemed to slip out around the man though, something about the stiff and grumpy officer made it so easy.

Novak just shook his head, silently indicating for Winchester to stay with a motion of his hand. He watched as Novak dropped the greatcoat entirely from his lithe frame and knelt up wearing his drawers alone, and dug through his pack. He extracted a pile of worn and crumpled clothes, disregarding the pile of rumpled, but fine clothing by his knees. Before Novak pulled anything over the clear skin of his muscled back, he found a scrap of paper in the bag and scribbled something on it with a stub of a pencil.

“Get one of the men to take this to a Captain Singer. He's at headquarters. I want a reply, so tell him to wait until Singer has an answer.” Winchester nodded and stood to attention briefly before carefully taking the stairs, and ducking under the low lintel of the door.

“Talbot. Take this up to headquarters, you know, by that really big church.” St John, at his elbow scoffs. “Do you mean the cathedral Sarge?” Winchester just levels a look at the educated, yet permanently drunk Balthazar St. John. The man had been destined for a parsonage, but had been drunk once too often, and had gambled away his fortune. With a string of unfortunate women left with child behind him, he had escaped to the army. “Yes, St. John, I think that you'll find that's what I said.” He turned his attention back to Talbot, the hapless young man who had had to join up after his elder sister eloped with the family gold, no young ladies of fortune would marry the destitute Talbot brothers. As the youngest, he had decided to save his family having to feed him, and taken the King's shilling. The pence he was paid, when the money came through, and after deductions, he sent home. “Right, headquarters, by the _cathedral_. Find a man called Singer. Try not to mention Novak, but you might have to to get in to see 'im. Give this to Singer and you're to wait for a reply. Understand?”

“Yes Sarge” Talbot parrots. Winchester trusts him. He came across as a little vacant, but he was a good man and made good decisions in a fight. “The rest of you, stand guard. I'm going back in to talk to the Captain.” With that he ducked back in to the dark room beyond and climbed back up the stairs. 

Novak was sitting in the window, silhouetted against the light in the alley beyond. He had put on a pair of battle stained trousers, and was pulling on his boots. Winchester had to admit that, unlike many officers, Novak was lean and fit. His stomach held no fat, his arms were strong and his back straight. The Captain who had led the Company before Novak had had to wear corsets, he was sure. He'd kept a lieutenant by his side to help him mount his horse, which was almost as fat as him. Winchester chuckled under his breath at the memory. 

Novak raised his gaze, a wary expression trained on his own features through thick eyelashes and heavy hair. Winchester decided to pretend he'd not made any noise at all. Novak turned away from him to his pack again and lifted out a grey cotton shirt which he pulled over his head. He watched the muscles of his Captain's back glide under the skin before it was hidden by the fabric. Finally the Captain swung on his jacket. Winchester raised an eyebrow involuntarily. The Captain's attire the previous night had been fine, beautiful even. Gold and scarlet, rich and clean. His everyday uniform, Winchester realised, was about as far from that as could be. The worn and discoloured breeches, the comfortable and scuffed, yet well looked after boots, the shirt, grey from too much wearing and washing, and the coat. The tailed coat of a captain of the Light Company, with gold frogging and white facings. It was all that and more. The gold was already frayed and dull, the white stained with powder burns and who knows what else. The red was already fading despite the newness of Novak's presence in Spain. The men's coats faded quickly to a dull maroon or a garish pink in the heat of summer or the driving rain and snow of winter on campaign. He'd never seen an officer expose himself to the elements often enough to become battle weary and stained. That half-respect, half-derision feeling rose in his chest again as he watched Novak fasten his cross belts and hitch the empty scabbard in to a comfortable position on his hip.

“What was the name of the man you sent to Singer?” Novak's question jerked him out of his reverie. He snapped his eyes up and away from Novak's trim waist where he had been absently watching the man tie his sash. “Um. Talbot, Sir. Edward, er, Ned Talbot.” 

“He trustworthy?” Winchester eyed Novak calculatingly. “Yes, Sir. I picked my best men. They're good in a fight, rogues, Sir, but they're quick witted, fast and I would, and do trust them with my life Sir.” He bit the sentence out, annoyed irrationally at Novak's need to question him or his men.

Novak's gaze did not drop or waver though. “Good.” And that was that. He was left reeling by this Captain Novak. 

“Can I ask for a little history of you and your brother, Sam wasn't it? It may help me to locate him if I know more of the man I am to search for.” Novak asked over his shoulder as he made for the stairs, his dress uniform from the night before stowed haphazardly in his pack, and the pack hidden in the dark shadowy corner of the dowdy room.

Winchester didn't really know where to start. Was it relevant? Would it help? Would it hurt if it didn't? “Er, well, the short version is that my brother and I got jobs working on the boats. Trade boats, between America and England and God knows where else. We were fine for a while, until Sammy got sick. We were in London at the time. Er, we had to stop working on the boats, Sam was too ill, and I had to look after him. I wasn't going to leave him there alone. I did some work in an inn, and we had a room above. Um. One night I borrowed some food from the kitchen. But, er, they found out and I got arrested. I was so angry. I was goin' to pay 'em back, I won at cards a lot, but, I didn't even have a chance to find a game. Sam was starting to get better, I'd got the food for him, to help feed him back up. Anyway. Got offered a hanging or take the Kings Shilling. Stupid Sammy followed me, the complete ass. Signed up too, despite being six foot four of skin and bone.” Here Novak exclaimed. “Six four?!” He half smiled in response. “Yeah. We were both kind of giants. After some training, we found ourselves here. Fighting for a King and country we don't belong to. I got, essentially, told that I had to be a sergeant, once the Lieutenant found out I could read and write. He was a good man. Then another year or so later we're fighting in the damn San Cristobal bloody breach. I was there, Sammy at my side, and then the next second he was gone. God help me but I looked for him best I could that night, while the Frenchies were firing down on us in that God-damned breach. We had to retreat, it was like rats in a barrel. The, uh, ceasefire, I went and looked for him again. I turned over, I don't know how many corpses and wounded. Anyone still breathing I sent back to the Company. But I never saw Sammy. He was just gone.”

“I am sorry sergeant. I will do my best to find out what happened to him. At six four, and American, either dead or alive it ought to be easy to track down what happened to him.” He felt relief, like warm rum, run through his body. Novak, for all his faults truly seemed like he would try and help. 

“Now, my turn.” Novak stated, all business, no hint of the sympathy that had graced his features just moments previously. Winchester looked in to his eyes questioningly.

“You may have been wondering, or at least I hope you have been, how we are to find a man, who, by rights, has no place in the British army, who has no listed billet, and who seems to have no specific role either.” Winchester just nods. He had been wondering how this insane mission was to be accomplished. 

“My sword.” He stares at his Captain quizzically. What did the man mean? “My sword was the murder weapon. My actual sword. It was replaced, I am fairly sure, just shortly before the ball I attended last night, with a copy. A good, but cheap copy. I didn't truly notice, or at least not consciously. My sword was already sheathed in the scabbard when I buckled the slings on. I'd left it unattended while I washed in the other room of my quarters. Before then, I'd handled it. I'm certain it was the true sword then. When I found the body of Captain Bass, the one in my hand felt wrong, the weight was wrong, the finish was off, crude. It fooled me long enough, but wouldn't have if I had had to draw it. The one left in the body, I'm certain was the true sword. The fact that it was my sword that was copied, and the fact that it was _me_ , makes me certain that it was Milton. I'm too new to the Battalion for anyone to know my sword well enough to make a copy without the original. It is unique. I designed it myself and it was made by a master sword-smith back home.”

“Wait. I'm sorry Sir. Bass? Bass is dead?” He couldn’t believe it. Bass commanded another company in the Battalion. He had been a good man. 

“Yes, I am afraid so. As the only captain remaining in the battalion who was commissioned before me, I would have gained preferment if promotion ever came up, which is laughable as Adler isn't about to retire, or get shot. I've never seen him near enough battle for that. He isn't senior enough himself for promotion, so the effect would have been futile. Yet, Adler himself accused me of it. So, it's isn't a stretch to think that Bass was picked for that reason, if I am indeed being framed.”

Winchester tried to take all this in. It seemed far fetched. Why would anyone want Novak dead this badly? “Can I ask Sir, what about this sword makes it special? And why will it lead you to Milton?”

“As I said. It is unique. I commissioned it myself. The hilt is filigree steel with inlay of copper, onyx and rubies. The hilt is a cage, wrapping about the hand. It is-” Novak hesitates, searching for the appropriate words. “imbued with meaning for me I suppose. As to how this will help lead us to Milton; I've only been in the army three months or so, assuming Milton is behind it, and assuming it wasn't premeditated prior to that, he would not have had a lot of time to create a copy. He knows the sword well, so he could probably have sketched it for the artificer. He wouldn't have wanted to expend the money the original cost, so we are looking for a man who will take commissions for cheap, trinket like weaponry. And who can make them fast. Milton is many things, but a blacksmith or sword maker is not one. If we can find the maker, we should be able to find the purchaser.”

Winchester nods, seeing the logic. “Why does Milton know the sword well enough to copy it? And, why would he try to frame you?” He asks, curiosity getting the better of him. “Sir” he adds belatedly.

Novak doesn't seem to notice the impertinence. “Let us say a long running family feud may be at play. He is technically my cousin of some sort. We have exchanged blows sufficiently for him to have seen the hilt and memorise it. It is fairly distinctive.” The finality in Novak's tone made Winchester halt his questioning. Just what was he letting himself and his men get in to, he wondered.


	8. Chapter 8

Winchester squinted against the bright sunlight suddenly filtering in to the alley from above. He watched on as Novak nodded to his men. 

“Corporal.” Novak acknowledged the NCO before turning back to Winchester. “I have things to attend to this day.” At this, Winchester couldn't help but hope that the Captain meant it, that he would look for Sam. “In the mean time I want you to search for the, uh, the artificer. Be subtle, will you? I don't want the entire city, nor headquarters knowing what we're up to. I trust I can rely on you, all of you?” He directed the question to the group of soldiers. They all, down to a man, glanced at Winchester for permission, which he gave with a silent nod, before they chanted 'yes, Sir' in return. “Excellent. I'm grateful.” Novak continued, either not seeing, or ignoring the men's subtle insubordination. 

“All right, go. I'll want to speak to you, Sergeant, in the morning. A full report, any evidence or information you have. Understood?” Winchester had to stop himself from rolling his eyes. Of course he understood. “Yes, Sir.” He snapped to attention, the men following suite, before marching down the alley towards the area of the city he'd noticed, during the fighting, that had stables. There was always a blacksmith near stables. It was as good a place to start as any.

“What we doin' then, sarge?” Lafitte piped up the minute they were out of ear shot of the Captain. Winchester hummed before answering the only other American in his Company. Lafitte was a good and strong man. Built like a brick shit-house with an unassuming, misleadingly lilting voice. Benny had been working on the boats, like Winchester and Sam had been, although for a different company. He'd got dead drunk one night and woken up in a stable in the city with a number of other hapless drunks who had been coerced by the recruiting sergeant whilst less than sober. He had been marched to the prison the next day, with the other raw recruits, where non other than Dean Winchester had been forcibly pushed in to line, and Sam Winchester ran up behind pleading to join up too.

“We're helping our courageous Captain avoid arrest by proving his innocence, Laffy.” Lafitte hummed, with an eye brow raised, to point his disbelief or acceptance, Winchester couldn't tell. 

“Sarge! Sergeant!” A yell ripped down the empty street. The four of them turned, seeking the source of the interruption. “Shut the fuck up, Talbot.” Winchester greeted, only half in jest, when he recognized his Private. The man was huffing and blowing. He had evidently ran to catch them up. He was doubled over trying to find his breath. “We need to keep quiet. Did you get the response from Singer?” Winchester asked, knowing he wouldn't get a sensible answer until the Private was able to pull in a full breath of the foetid alley's air. 

“Yes Sarge.” Talbot panted. “'Anded me the note 'imself. I just passed it to the Cap'. 'E was just leaving that 'ovel, pointed me down 'ere.”

“You did well. Come on then boys. We got a smithy to find, or some such shit.” The men all looked at each other before falling in to line behind Winchester. He noted their quick glances at each other, an eyebrow raised, a tiny smile, a bemused expression.

Winchester interpreted their looks as censure, as if he shouldn't be irritated with being recruited to wade through the ruined city searching for a man who may or may not have copied a sword so that their Captain could be framed for murder. It all seemed stupid to him and he felt the need to defend his annoyance to the men. “Fucking stuck up prick. Sending us on stupid missions, hunting for sword-smiths. Where's the fighting huh? We should still be relaxing in that inn with the rest of the boys, rum, wine and women.”

“You're the one who signed us up Sarge.” Corbett whined. “I know, I know.” Winchester sighed. “I'm sorry. But you're the best, and I need you with me on this, God knows how it's going to go. That prissy, holier-than-thou bastard has dragged us in to his ridiculous drama, and I can't do it with the dross.”

“Why'd you even agree brother?” Lafitte queried, disregarding the British need for formal address of rank, as he often did. Winchester knew this was going to come up at some point. He'd told the men very little that morning as he herded them towards the run down alley Novak's new billet was in. He felt dread at their responses, wondering if they'd think him insane. “He, er. He promised to do what he could to find out what happened to Sammy.” There, now he only had to await their judgement. And. As he knew it would, it came, flowing long.

Between the exclamations of “He's dead, Winchester! Just accept it!” and “We've all lost someone close, brother.” he can feel his anger rise. They don't know the Winchesters. They don't just die. Not like that, not without a trace, not without marshalling the forces of hell to help push them back to their loved ones. Because it was just them, the Winchesters alone, against the world. So, no. He wouldn't accept it. Sam wouldn't just get shot and disappear in to a mire of death without first yelling or grabbing Dean to let him know he was falling. He would hold on, even with a bullet obliterating his brain and shattering his skull, to let Dean know that it was going to be all right. 

It was the not knowing that had done it for him the past year. Logically he knew Sam was dead, but he had just been gone. And, Sam always came back for him, just as he did for Sam. So, he couldn't help but hold on to the hope that Sammy wasn't dead, that he was injured, or hiding, or he deserted and found a girl and a dog and was healthy and happy somewhere away from the shrapnel and round-shot.

“I'm sorry my friend, I agree with the boys. But, either way, we're in this mess now, holding the Captain's hand against Lord knows what. So you get news of your brother, what is it exactly that we're getting?” Trust St. John to point out the one part of the 'these aren't orders' plan that didn't hold up. Winchester swallowed, knowing they could refuse and leave, and neither he nor Novak could do a damn thing. “I'll speak to Novak. But I'm sure brandy could be arranged?” It was weak, but this was the army, made up of desperate men, most of whom had done a lot more for a lot less. 

Corbett stopped dead staring at Winchester, mouth working silently. He couldn't work out where the Corporal was going with this, but the men stood firm behind him. They respected the Corporal, he was a good fighter, brave, and he always put the men before his own needs. “I think brandy would be acceptable, as long as we get a chance to drink it without punishment.” The man held up one of his scarred fingers. “And some, uh, privacy next time we make camp. A decent room, not a shitty tent.” He pulled a face to point his meaning then nodded at Winchester as if that was sorted. He snorted at the man, at his men. They were just as he always expected, and wanted them to be. Honest, visceral, violent and good. “I'll see what he says, boys, I'll see what he says.”

-

They found them selves rolling rudimentary cigarettes, while Corbett filled his pipe. They were standing in yet another filth ridden alley, sordid with animal and human shit, a blood spray up the wall and a cold and empty corpse, guts missing where the dogs had got at them. St. John looked about him absently as he struck flint to get a light. Corbett, the least battle hardened, looked mildly disgusted. Talbot, Lafitte and himself entirely disregarded the squalor. They'd seen worse.

“This is where that farrier sent us. It looks… too clean.” Talbot raised an eyebrow. “What's clean gotta do with it?” Winchester sent Talbot a blank stare, as if to say 'really?' “You realise that we fought over that breach only a few days ago, and despite me keeping you horrible lot in check in that courtyard, the rest of our army, and the Portuguese, ran ragged in these streets for three days. Most of the dead here are natives, not the French. Nothing sacred remains. Women were raped, the cathedral” he nods at St. John “was sacked, buildings were burned and officers were shot if they dared to intervene, just because we could, Talbot, just because this shitty army could. So when I say it's too clean, I mean it. We're standing in horse shit and entrails, and just around that bend the ground is dusted only in straw, not brains too. The walls are intact, the doors are still on their hinges and there is no death or fire. So yes, Talbot. It's too bloody clean.” He sniffs, then instantly regrets it, the warm spring air was putrefying the city filled with bodies faster than fires could be lit to dispose of them. “What it means, Private, is that it's protected. Which leads me to think we might finally have the right spot.”

They had spent all the morning, and well into the afternoon traipsing from blacksmith, to stables, to workshops to jewellers. Either the buildings were empty of the living, or fired beyond help, or the occupants would not speak. That was until they found a farrier by the far gate around the city. He had gabbled, nervous, pointing. In the broken Spanish that, between the five of them they had the rags of, they had gained directions, so long as they wouldn't hurt him. The man looked as if he expected his business, home and his life to be taken from him. Hell, maybe it already had.

The directions had led them here. A small house, with a high wall and a filigree metal gate leading in to the courtyard. The gate was blocked with timber, obscuring their view of the yard, but over the top they could see a twisted tree growing near the house, lush with new leaves.

“We could scale it.” Lafitte suggested. “Could we break the gate down?” asked St. John. Corbett was the one to make the most obvious suggestion. “Why don't we try the front door Sarge? Might save us a beating if it is as well protected as you suggest.”

“I think you may be on to something there Corporal.” Winchester replied, flicking the butt of his cigarette in to the, what may charitably be referred to as, mud.


	9. Chapter 9

Novak gripped tight the note that Talbot had handed him and watched his back vanish around a corner after Winchester and his men. He sighed knowing that until the men came back with any intelligence there was little he could do on the matter of Milton. The matter of Sam Winchester on the other hand, he could make a start on. Choosing to remain out in the weak sun drifting between the high walls of the alley way, he unfolded the scrappy note with crabbed handwriting filling the surface.

Singer had come through, but the news was exactly as he had presumed. Samuel Winchester, Private, was recorded as dead in the Company accounts book. His name crossed out and his back pay used to clear his account for some blackball. He was still honoured to search on behalf of his Sergeant, as he had promised, but it rather confirmed for him that the search was useless.

During the short time he had waited for Talbot's return he had mentally listed places to search for the giant American. He would start with hospitals, there was the Battalion surgeon, but he couldn't risk seeing him while the Milton business hung over his head. There were a number of houses in the city acting as hospitals though, most requisitioned by the army, but one or two were native run, and may have been operating during and after the last siege.

He vaguely remembered one of the torrid officers at the ball mentioning one on the West side of the city that was run by the Spanish. With his hand pawing at thin air where the pommel of his sword ought to have been he strode off, squinting at the sky to point himself in the right direction. A hospital, post battle, was never difficult to find.

As he predicted, Novak heard the hospital before he smelt it, and smelt it before he saw it. The foetid stink of blood, piss, shit and vomit was as thick in the air as the screams, crying, begging and pleading. Most men prayed on the battle field, not for salvation, but for a clean bullet, anything to avoid the surgeons blade.

Novak slunk inside the dark entrance. Inside he found a long corridor, surprisingly devoid of people, hung with hunting scenes and portraits of stern looking men and women and panelled in gloomy, dark wood. The moaning, grunting agony of men was louder and more awful here, the stink overpowering. At the first door he came to he saw a man, all but passed out having a leg amputated. The man above him, a saw gripped tight in his hand as he sweated and wiped his other hand first to his brow, before wiping that against his blood stiffened apron. “Damn it Pike! More brandy!” The surgeons assistant jumped and tipped a mostly empty bottle towards the soldiers lips. “Not for him damn it! Me! I need that bloody brandy!” Novak watched as Pike held the bottle to the Doctor's lips this time. 

“Yes?” The Surgeon addressed Novak, suddenly seeing him standing in the door way. Novak knew there was no point asking this man about the younger Winchester. The English doctor was highly unlikely to have been here the previous year, and even if he had been, he doubted the brandy fuelled, blood filled memories would serve. “Are there any native doctors here, Sir?” He wasn't sure if the man was his superior, it was impossible to tell under the apron, shirtsleeves and blood, but it never hurt to err on the side of caution. 

The man raised with his eyebrows, completely ignoring the blacked out patient under his blade. “What do you want a Spaniard doctor for, eh, Captain?” He sighed, now was not the time to draw attention to himself. “A Spanish doctor owes me money.” He shrugged, hoping to look mildly abashed that he'd lost the man in the city before obtaining his winnings. The glassy eyed doctor barked out a loud laugh, an almost blasphemous sound amongst the crying screams. “There's a man in the back, calls himself Azarola. He owns this place.” Novak knew he had to seem convincing. “Azarola?” He hums, as if trying to remember. “To be honest I can't remember his name. But I trounced the man at cards. Owes me a small fortune. Do you mind if I speak to him?” The surgeon laughed again. “Be my guest! Don't kill him when he doesn't pay up though. There's enough death here for one day.” Novak nodded, knowing that the surgeon didn't need an answer. He watched as Pike swilled the last of the brandy over the man's new stump, he knew he ought to feel revolution, sympathy, horror. Anything other than the numbness that the hospital provoked in him. He, once again, prayed to be spared the surgeons knife if anything should happen, as he turned down the empty corridor to find Azarola.

Azarola turned out to be a wily looking man with dark skin, strangely red hair for a Spaniard and liquid amber eyes. He had long whiskery sideburns and a neat beard. Novak instantly distrusted him, but he had no option to ask his question.

In impeccable Spanish he addressed the man. “Excuse me Señor, did you work here at the time of the last siege? I am looking for someone who may have been injured in that siege.” Azarola started cackling before he even finished his sentence. “I was, señor, I was here. I remember a man? That's like asking me to remember an arm I cut off a year ago, or a wound I stitched closed! Too many dead and dying to remember faces.” Novak sighed, he tried one last time. “He was tall, very tall. And American, like me, not English, nor Portuguese.”

“I am sorry Captain, but everybody screams in the same language. I do not know this man you look for.”

-

Out in the bright, harsh sunlight and heat of the day, Novak suddenly felt sick. The smell of gangrene was fresh in his nostrils. He had searched the sordid sick rooms of the hospital before leaving. All the men were from the most recent siege, and gangrene and fever were already rife. Anyone left there more than a few days was sure to die, Sam Winchester would not be in a sick room in a hospital if he were alive. 

During the course of the day he asked in and searched through another three hospitals. At each one he was turned away with a similar story. The only prospect of hope he felt was a few of the native doctors mentioned, with heat, that the British had fled leaving them to care for many of the wounded. Most died, but some found their way back to the allies' army.

When the sky started turning the colour of a bruise, the amber disc of the sun starting to drift towards the horizon, Novak decided to pursue his second source of inquiry. All soldiers drank, well, not all, there was the odd Methodist in the ranks who kept to his calling, but they were few and far between. Most soldiers drank. They were issued rum and they were entitled to drink it. If a man survived the siege and found himself in a hostile city, alone and bereft of the army that houses, feeds and pays him, where else would he end up but an inn? 

At the third inn he entered that night he had all but given up. He ordered a drink. After the sacking of the city, there was little enough left, but for a couple of coins the hesitant man behind the counter parted with a mug of watered down, warm and rough brandy. Novak happily drank the beverage as he went about asking the same questions he had everywhere else. “Do you know, or have you seen a very tall American? Probably fluent in Spanish by now. Been around since the last siege?” The answer was always no. 

At the seventh inn he received a wineskin for his coins. He was closer to the river in this district. The stench of fire and death that the city had held since the siege was tinged with the dank smell of silt and fish guts. The mix of rum, brandy and wine was starting to sit heavily in his empty stomach and the noisome smell was not helping. After visiting the hospitals, he couldn't even contemplate finding food, and he realised that the last time he ate was the hunk of bread he'd begged from the suspicious officer before finding Winchester in the small hours of the morning.

His evening of asking questions about 'the man who owes him money' had only taken him around the areas of the city that the army wasn't using. He did not want to be any more obvious than an American soldier in the British army asking strange questions already was. Thankfully, he assumed that if Sam had been abandoned by the retreating army after the last siege, then he would be keen to avoid the army too. Desertion, whether purposeful, or through injury was punished heavily, at the end of a gun or rope. He appreciated that Winchester took a risk on his brother's behalf in asking him this as the favour. If he found Sam, he would hold the man's life in his hands.

With the now accustomed negative answer, he staggered out of the inn. He figured that he was more tired than drunk though, his head swimming with hunger. His late evening, rude awakening and strenuous day, not to mention all that on the heels of a battle and an accusation of murder, had taken a toll on him. He had had enough for one night. Tomorrow he could continue searching the inns, then try the few remaining businesses with people still present and ask if they had given Private Winchester work.

Out in the street he took a moment to orientate himself, trying to work out where his billet was. Without the sun as his guide, it took him longer than he would like to admit, the city was like a warren, twisting dark streets, false turns and dead ends. Pointing himself in what he fervently hoped was the correct direction he stumbled down the dim alley, his feet sloshing through puddles of unknown content in the dark. He took a few turns, shuffling through an even less salubrious part of the city, trying to fill in a map in his head in order to continue his search the next day. 

At the end of the alley was a cart, over turned and half obstructing way. The air was thick and heavy with the fumes of a dying fire, like much of the city. He could see the black pall still rising and hear the chink of stone cooling. 

He watched the play of greasy smoke and the occasional orange spark against the deep blue, star splattered sky. He made his way toward the cart, the shafts for the horse stabbing toward the sky. He lurched suddenly, his booted foot catching against something hidden in the darkness near the obstruction. He stumbled and lost his balance until his hand landed against the charred wood of the cart and steadied himself. He glared downwards at the ground behind him, searching for the invisible hazard in the blackness.

He discovered what had tripped him; the mangy looking leg of a corpse jutting out in to the thoroughfare, the rest of the body propped up against the mouldy wall in the deep shadow of the flickering firelight.

The rapid staccato of his heart did not receive much of an opportunity of calm after he discovered what had tripped him. 

He looked on in horror as the corpse's foot twitched.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Potentially triggery, this one.

A dull reverberation lanced up his leg from his foot. He could not feel anything else. All was darkness, numbness, silence. His only sensation the dull throbbing in his limb. He knew that was different. Unusual. The pain that woke him was usually the dry sun glaring at his eye lids or the ferocious pounding of his brain trapped within the confines of his skull. Slowly he became aware of more of himself as the heavy impression of his foot receded. He hurt all over. Without the throb in his leg he could feel his arms, head, body. He was cold. He still could not see, nor hear. Pressure made itself known on his rump, his back. His throat ached, a steady pulse started up behind his eyes. His stomach roiled and nausea struck him like a bolting horse fleeing cannon fire. His mouth was dry, sticky, cold and wanting. He was thirsty. 

Memory started to trickle in to the space he usually tried to obliterate. He wanted a drink and he wanted her. Grief descended upon him, deluging what senses he had recovered with desolation and loss. He couldn't have her. Not any more. Not since the soldiers had come. English. The English had come. The English had come and taken his girl and his drink and destroyed both in front of him.

Oh God, how he needed a God damned drink.

Suddenly a hissing assaulted him, followed by a high pitched whine slicing through his brain from the ears in and back out again. He winced with the pain the new sensation caused him. The non-sounds slowly, ever so slowly, faded in to the crackle and pop of a fire somewhere. The sound of his own heartbeat mirrored the thump behind his eyes adding to the pain. He usually awoke to the noise of women washing clothing and talking raucously. The ache in his chest grew again as he remembered the leering faces of red uniformed men coursing through his home.

He opened his mouth to sob, but suddenly found his nose awake with the scents of his surroundings. Scorched flesh, faeces, vomit, earth, smoke. Burning and death. It smelt like burning and death.

He pried his eyes open moments after he felt them lubricated with unshed tears. They were wet, yet dry, sore, itchy. He could not see properly, not that that was unusual upon waking most days. Everything was a blurred barrage of colour, the shapes swirling and blending in a cacophony of red, black, orange and blue.

Initially he managed to identify the sky, a swathe of deep blue-black. He sighed. It was night. The unending vista of stars laughing and mocking him. Not that he could see stars yet. A fierce, hot light was next to resolve itself. Fire. Everything else was dark except for a smudge of swaying red and white. He blinked, willed his shifting vision to resolve it's self in to something more solid. He almost felt his eyelids grate against his shrivelled eyes. The smear of white on red moved backwards away from him. Slowly he could differentiate the legs, a torso. The beige smudge of a face. An arm flung out to support the figure against something behind it. It was a man. A man in the red uniform of the English, white facings, tall boots. He could not see the marks of a Battalion, the haze and fog of the rank and sour wine he had consumed hiding that knowledge from him, but a hint of weight and metal at the man's hip indicated an officer. 

Shit.

More memories flooded him as his eyes became more accustomed to consciousness. Each like a knife twisting against body and soul. How long had it been since the English had come? How long since they had burned down his home, killed Ruby, drank his wine, beaten him and left him for dead? He couldn't remember. Had he been sitting in this gutter since that night? The burning haze of alcohol had not been enough to take away the pain of losing Ruby. Had he laid down here and hoped that her broken and blackened body, lying there in the mud, was the last thing he would see? He just didn't know anything any longer.

A particularly agonising stab of pain through his vision and in to his throbbing skull pulled him back to the moment. His vision was more acute now, he could see the gold frogging on the man's coat, the shock of dark hair, brooding eyes and a wine skin swinging from his hand. 

The need he had been feeling for months now, compounded by the Englishmen in their uniforms ruining his entire life, was back and burning in his chest. He wanted, needed that wine. It was the only way to survive, to stop the bad memories, the bitterness, the sadness. 

It was clear that this gaudy officer had strayed too far from his men. The man was swaying ever so slightly, he must have drunk too much, and Sam could focus only on the wine. Without it how could he carry on. No Ruby, no home, no brother. Wine was the only kindness he had left.

He watched the officer in silence as he squinted toward him in the dark, still slumped against the wall, in the same position he had awoken in. His eyes drifted to the wine skin in the man's hand again, even as his memories wavered back to the past few days. He tried to understand why the officer was here. Had the English had taken Badajoz? His last real memory was the British, scarlet uniforms garish in the light of the torches outside his house, pouring down the path. Running in to and filling every house, every building. His home hadn't stood a chance. He hadn't stood a chance. He thought he had heard cannon fire a few days prior, but that was a haze to him too. He'd found himself outside, soldiers flowing past him, eyes wild, mouths agape, faces blackened, blood and death soaking them, the stink of gunpowder thick on them. Then they'd got in to the house, and the girls had been taken, held aloft. Those that fought were raped and killed, those that didn't were raped anyway; again and again and again, screaming, and crying and finally giving up and just accepting that it would end eventually.

He had hidden, it then, there had been fire, the flames licked across the ceiling, and his bolt hole, his refuge had been destroyed. Someone's fist had found his jaw, the man had been just a blurry mess to Sam's senses at the time, but his face had been screwed up in a feral, rabid expression as he had collapsed to the ground. That night he had been too drunk to help the girls or stop the soldiers hurting him. He couldn't get up, couldn't make his limbs work. The world had span in smears of red and grey, the smell of burning flesh and hair and the screams and crying of his girl. Then, there had been blessed blackness. 

He'd woken a few times since that night his battered memories told him. Once in the shadow of tall flames burning the air dry and painful, another in the dark, cries and gunshots going off, again in the quite of dawn, and again, now, smoke still heavy in the air, with a drunken officer waving about a wine skin just feet from his dry throat and wounded soul.

The English had left though, hadn't they? Why were they back? Had the war come to Badajoz again?

He reached across himself quietly, searching for the knife that ought to be in his belt. He could kill the officer. No one would miss him, not in this city, at this time; not if soldiers were raping anything that moved, and burning everything that didn't. 

Maybe he should hide. If the English were back in the city, and with a redcoat before him, that must be the case, he should make sure no one else could find him. After he killed the soldier and took his wine, he thought, he could find somewhere to go until they leave again. The army always left again, whether they marched onwards or retreated back and away. He would be shot or hanged if they found him. They wouldn't care that he couldn't find his way back, they wouldn't listen that he didn't turncoat to the French. The mere fact that he was still alive and not amongst the ranks, where he was supposed to be would be enough to be the end of him. 

He pushed aside the feeling that the Army’s return meant something more, something more important to him than the mere prospect of his death, as his still blurred vision touched back on the wine skin hanging loosely in the officer's grip. He remembered that when he had wine in his gut and trickling down his throat he didn't need to remember anything much at all. If he could get the wine he could sink back in to the oblivion where Ruby was still alive and laughing and kissing his mouth with rum soaked lips. 

He began to push himself up off the rancid ground, out of the gutter he was all but lying in. He could feel the filth clinging to his trousers, to his hands. There was vomit next to him on the packed earth and horse shit all about mixed with blood, maggot encrusted entrails and urine soaked mud. The stench and sensation made his empty, sour stomach roil. As he got to his feet his vision swayed, blacked out, then came back in blurs and spots, swirling and spinning. His knees felt like they were liquid. His back coursed with pain, pinching at his neck and arms alike. He staggered, his balance gone and hit the wall with his whole weight, numbing his shoulder. 

Sam squinted trying to pinpoint his quarry amongst the renewed swirling shapes of his vision. Drunk he may be, hungover or beaten senseless, what ever, but the officer had no sword in his scabbard. He grinned, a feral smile cracking his taught, tight lips and he stepped forward to meet his prey.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was sooooo hard to write! I hope it's okay. I am having so much self doubt with this story. But, thank you to absolutely everyone who has kudos'd or left a comment, would probably have given up without you!


	11. Chapter 11

Novak's eyes widened with horror as the corpse twitched and groaned in the rank depths of the gutter. He spun on his heel and stumbled back along the alley, trying to keep his footing against the litter filled alley and the shock pouring through his veins like liquid fire. He felt the wine and the brandy leave his system in one surprise-fuelled moment. It seemed the corpse he had tripped over was not a corpse after all. 

The body was still entirely in shadow, while his own vision was impeded by the last flames of the burning building off to his left. None the less he could see the flash of reflected firelight as the person's arm clutched at their hip and brandished a short knife. The motion was jerky, uncoordinated. He heard the squelch of feet in soggy shite on the alley floor as the person heaved upward on to their feet. As the shape rose, it staggered and let out another groan, too deep in pitch to be female, too tall too. Far too tall. The man stumbled and slumped back against the wall, his knife arm going limp. Novak instantly dropped in to the guard position, every last trace of alcohol and tiredness leaving him. He dropped the wine skin in to the filth on the ground as his right hand flailed for his sword. It took a moment for him to remember why it wasn't there. Anger and annoyance thrilled through him. He wondered what this man was going to try, given his fumbling state. Never one to underestimate, he scrabbled for the seriously non-regulation knife he kept sheathed in a small holster, hidden beneath the slings of his sword, and under the maroon sash tied at his waist. It was a tiny, stubby thing, almost more suited to skinning rabbits than people, but he kept it deadly sharp with the whet stone buried deep in his pack. 

The definitely-not-a-corpse took a heavy step away from the smoke stained wall, still doubled over slightly one hand to his knee. The man was clearly drunk or injured, he couldn't tell in the shifting light from the fire. He saw too-long hair, pulled back in a knot at the nape of the man's neck, sallow skin, dark eyes with dead looking circles under them, one cheekbone split and raised in a purple-green swollen mess. The man wore rags, breeches too short, shirt torn. Evil knife glinting unsteadily in his hand

The man's expression was one of hatred, confusion and nausea. The moment Novak flashed his own knife from his side, the other man's features shifted, slow and dumb, to exhibit fear, respect and worry. Instead of rushing forward and making his attack, despite his ruined state, like Novak expected, the man continued to stare at him, dim eyes picking up red glints in the dying firelight. As he wavered on his feet, he pointed his blade, not in an attack stance, but as if to indicate his meaning, to emphasise his words. He seemed to collect himself slightly, as if he had come to a decision. His eyes flickered between the blade in Novak's hand and the wineskin on the ground. He straightened and opened his slack mouth, waxy skin catching in the faint fire glow. “Your money. An- An- And th' wine. Mon' an wine.” Not only was the man's gaze sliding across his features and the alley, seemingly unable to focus, but he slurred his words in a thick voice, heavy with drink, or perhaps concussion, drink being the more likely. 

Most importantly, Novak noted, his voice was thick and heavy with an accent of home, his home country, of America. 

Novak took the huge man in, appraising him fast. His first thought was that this, this, was Winchester's brother? They were so dissimilar. His second thought was that he didn't know the Sergeant's first name, which gave him an odd feeling of incompetence. 

Eyeing the staggering man in front of him, he could see little resemblance to the man's brother. There were admittedly both of great height, and broad of shoulder, but that was where their similarities ended. Sam was waxy skinned with sunken eyes. He looked all but emaciated, his strong angular jaw emphasised by his jutting cheek bones and sallow skin. His long arms were sheathed in rotten brown cloth, no muscle on the bone. Where the Sergeant's legs were bowed, compact and strong, this man's were long and thin. The sergeant's torso well defined, his back upright. Sam's stomach was bloated, despite having little flesh on his bones, his shoulders were rounded, hunched. Winchester kept his hair shorn unfashionably, yet practically short, Sam had let his longer hair go rancid with grease and the powder used to, supposedly, keep it in check. Winchester, despite being an arrogant ass was full of strength and practically shone with his vitality. Sam looked sick and ill and tired. A broken man.

Novak, needed to ascertain if this was indeed Winchester's long lost brother. Tall, yes, American, yes, but it would be beyond embarrassing to spend his time, effort and money on bringing this man back to Winchester, only to discover he had come across the wrong man. Assumption never faired anyone well.

“You can have the wine.” He announced, pronouncing each word clearly, making sure his own accent came across distinctly. Sam's head shot up, his attention having slipped, his eyes drooping and glazing over. Novak sunk down, his blade held away from his body, and picked up the wine skin. He slung it across the gap between them. Sam made no effort to catch the vessel, his wavering gaze alighting on it where it fell like a moth drawn to a flame.

Sam turned something akin to a disgusted look toward Novak, his lip hitching in a limp sneer. Novak watched on as the giant tried to bend over to retrieve the drink from the ground whilst trying to keep an eye and his weapon trained on the officer. He felt a mixture of pity and disgust as the man's tenuous grasp of balance finally failed him and he toppled slowly back to the filth of the gutter.

Biting back any revulsion he felt to this wasted man, he dropped to his haunches in the shadows behind the fallen cart. He had to be kind, he had to show fellowship, he had to seem trustworthy. “Come on, let me help you up. Here's the skin” He lifted the wine skin out of the mud and held it within reach of the drunk's hand. The man watched it without trying to take hold of it. He suddenly went wide eyed and lurched to his side, vomiting up the contents of his stomach, which Novak noted, was basically nothing. Mostly stringy liquid and orange bile. He screwed up his face at the added stench of the man and his surroundings.

“Come on. Get up out of that. What's your name?” He asked as he helped heave the bony man up and away from the sick on the ground. He held his breath, not just against the smell, but in hope that his guard was sufficiently down that he would answer. Telling your name to an officer when you would be assumed a deserter if the name was recognised was a death sentence. He couldn't tell if the drunk had noted the Regimental emblem of his jacket or not. He could only hope that the man was too drunk, or injured to have understood what he was looking at, who Novak was.

“'M Sam. Winche- Shit.” The man's eye's went wide and fearful in an instant. A hint of sobriety entered his face. Novak took a deep breath, through his mouth. Inside he was rejoicing, but externally he showed no change to his sergeant's brother. “Sam. Nice to meet you.” He hoped that Sam wouldn't remember threatening him not more than five minutes ago, he might think his friendliness strange. He also hoped that he would not remember that he was being helped up out of the shit filled gutter by an officer, 'How do you do's' rarely transcended rank.

Sam's brow furrowed, and Novak held his breath again, waiting for the man to question the strange turn of affairs. But Sam just shook his head and started looking about him again. “Where's th' wine?” Novak reached to get it again, and hauled Sam up to his feet before placing the skin in Sam's hand. “It's mostly empty. How about we go find you some more?”

Sam, already guzzling the sour, warm wine just nodded, all defences destroyed by his hunt for the alcohol. Novak shook his head silently manoeuvring the giant of a man to point down the alley in the direction of his billet.

-

It took an unnecessary amount of time to coerce, cajole and manipulate the staggering, belching and incomprehensible man back to his billet. At one point he pushed Sam up against a wall next to another inn whilst he ducked inside the sour and sweat filled interior to buy another wine skin. This he used as bait to entice his slow moving quarry closer to a flat surface to let him pass out upon. 

As he finally got Sam to the entrance of his billet he was suddenly struck with a thought. He could not, in all conscience, let Winchester see his brother in such a state. The man's fierce loyalty to his brother, his belief that he must be alive, his pride, would all be ruined if he came across his brother; a sick stinking, sallow faced drunk, unable to articulate words, and lacking any sense of self beyond his name. Winchester would be floored. For some reason he felt as if this would be failure on his behalf. He had only promised to try and find the man, not even to bring him back to Winchester, only to find him. Yet now, here he was, watching Sam barely holding upright outside of Novak's borrowed hovel, and he couldn't face showing this shell of a man to the Sergeant who had never given up on him.

Leaving Sam, eyes closed, vomit and drool clinging to his chin, swaying in the alley, Novak kicked in the broken door of the hovel one along from his own. Inside was much the same as his own. He kicked a space in the centre of the floor by the ruined fire place, moving rotten timber and blackened furniture aside. Astonishingly he found some moth eaten, thread bare blankets dropped in the cold hearth. Ignoring the soot and dust clinging to them, he threw a couple on the floor and put others aside to sling over Sam.

He led the man in, forcibly pushing his head under the low door way. It took little to get Sam to drop to the floor, a little pressure on his shoulder and he collapsed. Novak moved the drunk on to his side, in case he spewed the new wine up and choked in his sleep. Then, he threw the other blankets over the man and left for his own thin blanket and hard floor, thoroughly exhausted by the night's actives.


	12. Chapter 12

Winchester came to a halt and faced the heavy wooden door. It had wrought iron bands holding the ancient planks together, pitted with age but free of the quartermasters marks seen on the doors across the rest of the city. Without thinking he unslung his musket and hammered the stock three times against the door, hearing the hallow echo from within. Lafitte and Corbett stood either side of the door, not exactly out of sight, but nor were they immediately visible should anyone answer, active yet intimidating, and ready, on guard. St. John and Talbot stood behind Winchester, one to either side. All of them were on edge. All expecting a fight. 

Another round of impatient knocking and Winchester eventually heard foot steps ringing from within. Two pairs, if his ears served him right, one quick and irritated, the other long and languorous. The old, dry wood and un-oiled hinges squealed and complained as it was opened, making Winchester wonder if this door was mostly unused. Behind the entrance stood, squarely, without a trace of fear, an angular, short, implacable and daunting woman. She appeared to be in her mid-fifties, squat and sure, and Winchester wouldn't, under any other circumstances, dare to get on her wrong side. But he had promised Novak, and Novak had promised him. 

In the dark of the doorway Winchester noticed the second figure. The man appeared to most closely resemble a stone wall. His face was flattened, a scar ran down his cheek, he eyes were flat and hard to read. He wore a jacket which was stretched across his broad chest, and had a long knife in his hand, a pistol at his hip and a musket slung across his shoulder. 

Winchester smiled.

Lafitte and Corbett, not knowing what Winchester could see, exchanged quick glances. That was Winchester's 'guaranteed to be sharing his tent with a pretty girl that night' smile. It never failed. 

In Spanish, less broken than he had expected, Winchester introduced himself as Sergeant Brown. “Ma'am, It is an honour and a pleasure to meet you.” He began, slightly haltingly. “I was hoping you would be able to help me? An officer, well, more of a friend of mine really, he has gone missing. His quarters are empty. He spoke of you. I knew he was here, he had a sword made not long ago, but, I have not seen him since the battle. I just hoped, Ma'am, that you would kindly let me know when you last saw him. I am greatly worried.” At the mention of the sword, both the woman and the man stiffened. Her arms folded across her bosom, sturdy forearms flexing in the light from the lantern hanging within. His feet shifted, edging his weight on to his toes in readiness. Winchester swallowed. He knew it was dangerous to mention the sword. If this was the sort of operation that he believed it to be, then details of what they did would hardly be made available to anyone to just happened to ask, they would not be interested in letting the Spanish authorities find out what commissions they took behind their heavy and ominous front door.

Nevertheless, the woman didn't react further. It was a long shot, being disgustingly polite to the woman who looked as if, if her gaze didn't take you down, then a rolling pin would do the job nicely. She could probably take him on bare handed and have a fair chance at winning, Winchester thought. He plastered a slightly pleading and hopeful look on to his face, all wide eyes and concerned mouth.

Her gaze softened slightly. “I have not seen anyone since your army came to destroy our city señor. Is your friend the dark haired gentleman?”

“Yes, Ma'am.” Well, no. Novak had said that Milton was blond, but at this point he was willing to follow any lead they had, he couldn't risk alienating her and ending up with no information at all, besides, maybe they could return if this dark haired gentleman was unrelated to Milton and Novak's sword.

“I had the boy follow him one night, señor.” Here she looked slightly shifty, guilty. “I was, uh, worried about him. Englishman alone in the city full of French. Went to an inn.” She reeled off the name of the place. Winchester noted the mention of 'Englishman', sighing as he let go of the hope that they would be searching for another American as Milton's accomplice. Looking for an unknown American in the city would be like looking for a needle in a haystack, looking for an unknown Englishman would be like searching for a piece of hay in a haystack. He spared a thought for Novak and his near impossible mission searching for his brother.

He discarded the thought and schooled his features to look pleasantly surprised and beyond grateful.

He bowed, full and low and grinned up at her. “You're generosity knows no bounds ma'am. I am eternally grateful.” And, before she, or her giant guardian, could react, Winchester grabbed her hand bent over it, licking his lips and keeping his eyes fixed on hers. He kissed her tough and calloused hand then winked at her in the most charming and roguish way he could manage, before sending her his tried and tested grin again.

Before the spell broke, he stood briskly to attention, strong and sure, leaving a gleaming coin in the woman's still outstretched hand. He risked another smirking grin then marched straight out of sight of the artificers, knowing his men would follow the charade. No shambling shuffle, lacking adherence to the proprieties, this. He knew they would have their backs straight, their arms swinging, and their heads held high. 

-

It was late at night, the stars shining through the mockery of a window in the broken down, empty stable he and his men were hunkering down in while on this operation for Novak. They had found the inn the woman had mentioned, but had decided to call it a day, he and his men were exhausted. They had found some bread and cheese on offer in another inn, and had scraped together enough coins to buy a wine skin between them. They had eaten and drunk quietly in the half light of late evening, each looking forward to returning to the Company, to warm food and their rum ration. 

Winchester rolled on to his back in the ancient and putrid straw. Putting his moment of weakness regarding his thoughts toward his Captain earlier in the day, Winchester damned the man silently to the rustling warmth of the stable. If it weren't for Captain fucking Novak he could be bunked up with Pam or Helen or Catherine. Warm breath, soft skin, curves in all the right places. He could place Catherine on her knees and pound in to her from behind, that always made her scream. Helen liked her nipples sucking. She made soft sighs and quiet grunts. And Pam, Pam liked to be in charge. She liked to ride him like one of the horses at Epsom. 

He swallowed hard. He had the hay loft of the large quiet room to him self. The men were below in the stalls, their snores a marching band in the night.

He ran his hand down his chest, feeling each brass button on the faded red coat, thinking of smooth skin, full lips and dark eyes. The rough fabric of his trousers caught on the calloused skin of his battle worn hands. Visions of dusky nipples and soft breasts swam through his mind. His hand sank further pressing against the hardness of his groin. He imagined sweet panting and bitten off moans. His finger tips traced over the head of his swollen cock as he slipped his hand through the buttoned opening of his trousers. He pictured the mischievous smirk that had lit Pam's face as she bounced on top of him the other night. His palm tightened around his length through his drawers and he stifled a quiet groan against his other fist. He would caress his hands over her thighs, up her curved hips and waist. He would cup her breasts and catch her smiling eyes. Her cold, hateful, glaring, blue eyes...

“Fuck” he grunted quietly and rolled in to a ball on his side, arms wrapping about his head, squeezing his eyes tight shut, willing the vision away.

Fucking Novak. He can't even escape the man's judgement long enough to have a wank.


	13. Chapter 13

His eyes peeled open. It felt like his eyelids were taking his retinas with them. He could only see in block colours and smears of black. His tongue seemed welded to the roof of his mouth. Dry, sticky, sore and sour. There was the taste of bile and the tannin dryness of the revolting wine the Spanish sold the English. He felt as if a quarter pounder was going off reasonably close to his ear drums, the vibrations fit to burst his skull open. His finger nails hurt. His heart was beating too fast. He could smell vomit and ash and sweat and smoke.

  


The floor. His vision resolved itself, and it turned out to be the floor he was staring at, from about two inches away. An ant walked past.

  


The quarter pounder was still firing, intent on deafening him and shattering his skull with the reverberations.

  


If he hadn't woken up like this most days over the past eight months or so he would be worried.

  


He couldn’t remember last night. No, he couldn't remember the past few days, there were hints, blurs, night and day, but nothing certain. He could remember Ruby's corpse, raped and defiled on the steps, he could remember being beaten, out numbered, and he could remember the men taking his wine. But not all the wine. He'd hidden some in the outhouse. That's where he had hidden and drank and drank and drank, until the fire seeped in through the rafters, then he had fled. And… that was it. He was here inside.

  


A voice permeates his thought process. “If you're to re-enter the Company, you'll need permission before you get drunk like that again Mr. Winchester.”

  


Sam used to have reflexes, he really did. He had been a good soldier, one of the best in the light Company, despite his size. But the strangely calm, collected and flat, toneless, deep voice just floored him. Surprise was not shown by jumping to his feet, or even sitting up, he just froze and tried to hold his stomach from spilling over the ground next to him.

  


He tried to form words, to ask who the voice belonged to, to ask how it knew his name, but his throat was too sore, his mouth too sticky, his lips too numb. He couldn't even move his head to bring the voice's owner in to view. He thought it was behind him, but he couldn't be sure, he could only watch a second ant pass his vision in the dusty floor before him.

  


A sigh formed, deep and fed up. “Private Winchester. I am choosing to overlook your desertion, to feed you, to get you cleaned up, but I do expect something not entirely monumental from you in return, such as actual movement.”

  


Sam blinked. It was progress he supposed.

  


-

  


Time had passed. Of that he was sure. The light was stronger, less dawn-blue. Why that thought came to his mind he would never know, thinking of the type of light filtering through the broken window, which he could now actually see, whilst having ice cold water thrown over his head seemed a little irrelevant.

  


“Ah, good. I see you are awake Private.”

  


-

  


Sam was naked. This fact didn't concern him. When you live and work in an army on campaign, nakedness around others was unavoidable if you ever want to be clean. What did concern him was the unrelenting gaze of a Captain of his old Company. The Captain was new. But, then, it had been a year since he had seen the facings of his Company.

  


He took in the room quickly, through the groggy haze that was still his mind. There was ash smeared on the floor, a broken down fireplace, some stinking blankets that he had woken wrapped in. And, the wooden bucket that the Captain had filled and thrown over his head not ten minuets ago.

  


He wanted wine. Or rum. Or brandy. He really wasn't very fussy.

  


Something told him that asking for something to drink _would_ probably earn him a reprieve from the firing squad for desertion. But, it would probably also earn him a slit throat right here, right now, in this filthy hovel, at the hand of this implacable looking officer with the flat, cold, ice blue eyes.

  


“Let me tell you how this is going to go Private. I am going to refill that bucket from the well outside. You are going to stay here while I do that. I am guessing that you are still feeling reasonably delicate and that walking out in that bright sunshine out there may cause you some difficulties. When I return, you are going to wash as best you can. You stink Private. I will give you bread and water, and while we do all that, Private, you are going to tell me just what the hell has happened to you over the past year.”

  


Sam just stared at the man silently, trying to match his icy cold glare. Why on earth would a Captain, of his old company, gave a single tiny fuck about why he deserted. Not that he did, intentionally, but that's exactly how this army would see it.

  


So- He nods.

  


The Captain, tall, angular and graceful, pushed out through a door at the back of the room that he hadn't noticed, in to, what looked through the brief gap, to be a courtyard. He took a wistful glance at the pile of soggy clothes at his feet before staggering toward the front door and freedom.

  


Suddenly Sam found himself on the ground, a grunt pushed from deep in his chest as the air left his lungs.

  


His bare ass grazed against rock and exposed nails, his elbow hit the door frame. He hadn't even felt the boot connect with the back of his knee before he collapsed. He swore loudly. The Captain's face came in to view above him. “Well, it was a valiant effort I suppose, Private. Get inside.”

  


Sam returned to the room. He didn't have much choice. The Captain was beside him, was quicker, sober, and healthy. He hadn't realised just how out of condition he was. Even drunk, not a year ago, he could have run through that door before the Captain had a chance to move. Suddenly a tiny worm of doubt entered his mind. He hadn't thought once since the siege, since he was wounded, about whether he'd taken the right path, and aside from regret over leaving Dean, he hadn't had a choice. Had he?

  


The Captain picked the bucket up from where he had left it, propping open the back door and dumped it next to Sam. “Wash.” There was a rag in the bucket. He picked up the rag and started to scrub away the grime of, well, months, probably.

  


“Talk” the man ordered.

  


-

  


Wiping the rag against his fore arms he looked up at the Captain. “What do you want to know? And, why?” He frowned suddenly. “Is my brother still alive?” He spoke sullenly, but hope and terror filled his chest as the words left his mouth. The dark haired man folded his arms across his chest and leaned comfortably against the wall, looking completely at his ease. “Tell me what happened, begin from the battle in the breaches of the siege last year.” He ignored the second and third questions Sam had asked.

  


Looking down at his naked torso as he tried to dislodge the dirt, he sighed. Was the man torturing him? Get him clean before getting him arrested? What was his angle? Maybe it was a 'we're all American in this army' thing. Who knows.

  


“Well, Sir. I was shot.” He began, an abrasive note in his voice, and a sneer on the honorific.

  


He sighed, thinking it would be easier to get it over with. “It took me a while to piece together what happened, but I remember an explosion and then blackness. Dean, my brother, um, a Sergeant? He was behind me, getting the rest of the men up the hill.”

  


“What I think happened was that a grenade went off at pretty much the same time I got shot in the head. Well, it was a glancing blow. Knocked me out, and the blast knocked me back down the breach. When I came to, I don't know how many days later, but I was under about four corpses. I was covered in blood, flies were crawling down my throat and I woke staring up in to a dead man's eyes. I dug my way out. It was night. Er, the army had gone. My brother was gone.”

  


“So anyway. I was outside the city and my head was fuzzy, I couldn't focus or think clearly. I was covered in blood. I looked like a walking corpse. It was easy enough to get inside the city. But, then I was kind of stuck. There was still a French garrison, and the Spanish weren't exactly friendly. I had a few rags of Spanish though, so I could at least communicate.”

  


Here he paused his washing, not wanting the Captain to watch whilst he cleaned his more intimate parts. The Captain seemed to get the message, despite his utter lack of awkwardness watching another man wash in front of him, and turned away to the empty window behind him.

  


Sam continued his tale. “So, uh, I washed most of the blood off in some gutter and found my way to an inn. I was going to ask where the army had gone, so I could follow.” He felt the need to clarify, to try to save him self a little, and it was the truth. “I wanted to re-join. I didn't want to leave Dean. But er, no one would tell me where they'd gone, or anything at all really. They all just shooed me off. By then I needed food, a roof over my head, so I started looking for work. Something to earn enough money to survive.” He paused again. He had finished washing and the Captain had turned back around, his gaze blank, not judgemental, just empty. He glanced toward the wet, filthy clothing on the floor. “Continue.” The officer stated, before reaching behind him to the window sill and throwing a bundle toward him.

  


He unwrapped the lump, finding a hunk of bread and a full canteen. The fabric wrapping turned out to be a reasonably clean shirt and a pair of white breeches. British army uniform breeches.

  


Warily he looked back up at the Captain. Wondering what the uniform meant. Was he expected to re-enlist. The Captain shrugged at his silent question. “You needed clothing. I stripped a corpse. I hope they fit. Please, continue” It didn't answer Sam's question, but he took the hint.

  


“One night I was drunk. I'd helped an inn keeper roll barrels he'd hidden from the French in to his cellar. He gave me drink as payment. I met a girl. We, er, we got on.” He paused, hoping he wouldn't have to explain _that_ to the Captain. Although, looking at him, he might just have to. The man just gives a little jerk of his head and Sam continues, grateful. “She paid for wine and brandy, for days. We drank together and, well, you know. Um. And, I don't really know. Next thing I knew I was working for her. There was a house of girls and they needed protection. Ruby was mine, but she was still one of _them._ When the men came, if they got  violent, I would kick them out. I had a roof over my head, and all the wine I could drink. I didn't mean to stay long. But I don't know. I got drinking, and I couldn't stop.” His eyes widened in realisation. Something had just slotted in to place. He had become hooked on wine, on spirits. All because of Ruby. He hadn't wanted to leave her, but they would only be together when there was wine, when she was dribbling brandy down his throat and licking up what spilled from his skin. She hadn't wanted him. She'd used him. She had not wanted _him_.

  


He sank to the floor and stared up at the Captain. The implacable Captain, who seemed to be helping him, and he didn't know why. Something shifted in his expression. He looked kinder all of a sudden, like he understood. His eyes were suddenly warmer.

  


“Eat. Drink the water. What happened during the siege? This one I mean.” Sam took a massive bite of the bread. It was dry and stale, but still the best thing he eaten in a long time. When had he even last eaten? There had been wine, and brandy, but he couldn’t remember food.

  


“I don't remember a siege. I- I guess I must have been unconscious? Or drunk, I don't know. I don't remember there being any preparations. But, it couldn't have been a surprise to the girls? Surely?” There was pity in the Captains face now. “No, Private. The city knew the siege was coming. It lasted a long time. I am amazed the entire thing seems to have passed you by.”

  


Sam frowned. The last siege took months. How could he not remember, or know about another siege? “Jesus.” He started to feel the first flutterings of panic. “Um, I just remember Ruby. She was killed, stabbed and raped. They were all raped. A whore house in the city; it was brutal. The girls were mostly killed. I don't really remember. Ruby was- I saw her body. On the steps. She- Oh God. I went to find the wine. I didn’t want to be awake. But the soldiers, they beat me. When I came to again, I found the outhouse. I had hidden some wine there, I remember wanting to drink it without the other men finding it. So I drank it all. All of it. Christ! Then there was fire. Above me. I ran.” he stopped to take a huge breath. “Well, stumbled, out in to the alley. And then there was a man. I wanted his wine. Shit. That was you wasn't it? Fuck!” By now he was on his feet. Trousers pulled up, but held up with his hand. His chest still exposed. He was breathing heavily. Terrified, his blurry memories of the last few days sickening him. How had be become such a person. He hadn't even thought about his brother in months, didn't miss him, didn't try to find him. All he looked forward to was the occasions Ruby let her be his for the night and the wine skins she fed him.

  


“Sam. Sam listen to me, I'm here to help you. My name is Novak, I am not going to arrest you. Do you understand? Breathe.” Sam nodded, but he couldn't breathe. He was too disgusted, too frightened of what he had become. The Captain was crouching in front of him. Holding his shoulder, concern contorting his features. When did he fall to the floor? “Your brother, Winc- Dean? He will be here soon. We need to get you ready to see him.” Dean? Dean was alive? Fear flooded him again, he was such a disappointment. His big brother was going to hate him. Was going to abandon him, just like _he_ had  abandoned Dean in the first place.

  


He still couldn’t draw breath. He felt dizzy, sweaty, his pulse pounding in his neck, his heart against his ribs. In the Captain's eye's he saw nothing but worry, and he couldn't take it. He felt the bile rise in his chest, the heat and the acid. He let his stomach evacuate itself of the bread and the water, as he collapsed in to a shuddering, shivering heap in the floor.

  


“Perfect.” he heard grumbled from up above him.


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, thanks to everyone who comments and kudos's. You guys keep this story going!

“Sir.” Winchester announced with an angry turn to his voice. Novak glanced up at him. The Captain looked tired, worn. His eye's were hollow, skin sallow. He was perched on the window ledge in the single room downstairs of his billet, one leg hitched up on the sill, an arm wrapped about his knee, a short knife digging at the dirt under his finger nails. “You have news?” Novak asked, calmly, a little resigned, not looking up from his task. “I do Sir. Do you?” He couldn't help it. He had spent all the previous night hunting through the foetid city, looking for a God forsaken inn, where a man, unknown, was supposedly sleeping, that may or may not have anything to do with his Captain's fucking ridiculous family feud, a sword and a murder. He was livid. He had spent the morning continuing the search, he and his men were exhausted, fed up and far too sober. And Novak, fucking Captain fucking Novak had been sitting on his arse for thirty-six fucking hours.

  


Novak raised an eyebrow, his intense gaze meeting Winchester's. His unearthly composed façade not dropping an inch at his surly tone. “Do I detect a problem Sergeant?”

  


His patience decided to go and hide elsewhere.

  


“I think you just might, _Sir_ , yes! I've spent days running across this fucking city with my best men, missing out on proper food and drinking and girls, for you, sir. For you and your stupid mission. And I'm seeing fuck all in return! Sir.”

  


“You keep asking for reports of progress and you forget I'm not under orders here Sir, so where is _my_ fucking progress report? What have you been doing to keep up your end of the bargain? Because from where I'm standing? You're doing fuck all. And that ain’t good enough.”

  


“Sir.” He spat belatedly, putting as much venom in to the title as he could.

  


Novak unfolded from his still and silent vigil on the window sill one one fluid movement. “What have I been doing Sergeant?” He asked rhetorically. “Apart from hoping to hell that my life might be spared because of the kindness of two NCO's and some privates? I've been slogging across this God damned city as much as you. Hunting for a dead man, for a ghost that you refuse to believe is dead. Despite you having no evidence except your hope, your love for the man. Jesus, Winchester!” The Captains eyes flashed with vivid anger, his lip curled up in a snarl. “I've risked my life sending messages to head quarters because of your brother. I've put my self in danger asking about a pretty damn conspicuous American in every inn, workshop and hospital this side of the city. So, no. Damn you Winchester. I haven't been doing 'fuck all'. I've been putting this whole damned mission, saving my life, my reputation and my bloody career in jeopardy, for you. For you Dean.”

  


Winchester was breathing heavily, anger bubbling alongside surprise at the man's vehemence, and his apparent aid. It escaped his notice, initially, that Novak used his first name. He kept his fists clenched at his sides as he stood stiffly to attention, trying not to just break and hit the man, whilst wondering if the arrogant shit had found anything, wondering if what he was saying was truly correct...

  


Novak was still standing, his shoulders braced, lips a thin angry line, chest heaving in controlled anger. Blue eyes glinting with rage in the half light filtering through the hallow window. Winchester felt he had to offer the Captain something in return, if what he said was true, if he had been scouring the city for Sam.

  


“We found an artificer.” He spat out. “We think it's the right one, Sir. We found an inn where a man, English, almost certainly not Milton, was staying who dealt with them about a sword.”

  


Novak's stance didn't change. All tense, hard muscle. No give. His eyes fearsome as they seemed to glare right through him.

  


“Come with me Sergeant.” Novak ordered, his voice flat.

  


Before Winchester had a moment to react, argue or ask further questions, Novak was out the door and in the sticky, humid mid-afternoon sun. He didn't go far, and Winchester watched as he ducked in to the broken down doorway of the building next door. He hesitated before following inside. He still couldn't get his head around Novak's statement. Had he really been out searching all this time?

  


It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the dim light inside the low beamed room. At first he focused on Novak who was standing stiffly in the window of this building, clearly his favoured spot. Then, he followed the Captain's gaze to a figure he hadn't taken in initially, through the rage hazing his vision. A tall man, hunched on a backless, broken chair, facing away from him in the doorway. His hair grazed the nape of his neck, dark, mid-brown, and damp. A white shirt clung slightly to his wide shoulders. A pair of long legs stuck out in front of the chair, clad in white breeches. His feet were in black boots, the same as Winchester and his men wore.

  


“Sammy?” He croaked out.

  


The man swivelled in the chair, turning to face Winchester. “ _Dean_.”

  


-

  


Novak was furious, not at Winchester ' s accusations particularly, but at the man's attitude.  Ho w dare he treat him with  so little respect,  he thought . He is an officer.  _Winchester's_ officer. They may both be  American ,  therefore by most peoples accounts, heathens an d barbarians, but he was still an officer, and  entitled to  respect. He was educated, a gentleman. He had social graces. Whereas  Winchester w a s uncouth, rude,  uncivilised, arrogant and- 

  


And surprisingly young and vulnerable looking when reunited with his brother.

  


He watched the younger, taller man rise and take the Sergeant in his arms. They shared a rib bruising embrace, both their eyes squeezed shut, against the painfully raw joy filling the room.

  


Novak sidled out of the doorway silently.

  


Winchester's men were squatting in the filth in the lee of the wall opposite his hovel, trying to set flint to tinder. One of them, St. John had his tin cup out, and was ferreting around in his ammunition pouch, probably looking for tea leaves. He frowned, they probably shouldn't be making a fire and bivouacking out in the open like this, but then, the army was still in disarray. No one was going to be down a dirty side alley in the rotten part of the ancient city looking for six missing men, especially as their commanding officer was with them. No one would be putting out a call to search for them and Singer was handling his own disappearence.

  


He dipped his head back under the lintel in to his own billet. Swiftly he negotiated the rickety staircase to the upper room and his pack. From it he extracted his own small stash of bitter tea leaves, at least his weren't riddled with the smell, taste and texture of gunpowder like the men's would be.

  


Back downstairs he swiped the linen cloth from the hearth that he had acquired earlier that morning. Blinking in the unrelenting sunshine, he returned to the men. “Try and keep the smoke from being too obvious. Here.” He passed across his tea. The men's eyes went round in surprise before Lafitte grinned broadly “Thank you, Sir.”

  


“Sir?” Corbett piped up. “Corporal?” Novak responded warily. “Well, Sir, I hope you don't mind me askin'. But what's keepin' the Sarge? He was shoutin'...before...and....” He tailed off in to embarrassed silence, realising that he had overstepped the mark with his Captain. Novak shook his head, trying to assure the Corporal. “Sam” was all he replied before re-entering the dark doorway to the room with the Winchesters.

  


With i n, he did his best to ignore the snatches of conversation between the brothers. “S- She died, Dean.” “It'll be fine Sammy, I don't think she was good for you anyway.” He dropped the bundle on the hearth in the mostly empty room, pulling apart the lin e n to reveal a hunk of bread and a small lump of cheese. He had planned to get a wine skin for the brothers to share, but, in the circumstances felt that it wouldn't be wise. The younger man had been tempted, and had failed miserably in resisting the lure of drink. For the best part of a year he had been drowning in the stuff, so much so that he had lived through the  preparation , and execution of a two month long siege without so much as a hint of understanding  as to what was happening beyond the walls of the whore house in which he worked and slept. He suspect ed that  had he had not tripped  on the man's limbs  in the shite covered floor of the alley the previous night, then the man would have been dead within a few months, if not from the French,  Portuguese , English or Spanish, the drink, the pox or possibly malnutrition would have taken him. 

  


Leaving the ex-Private and Sergeant to reunite in peace, without a word to either of them, he strode back out in to the alley. Eyeing the troops, he selected the dark haired private, all earnestness and big brown eyes, who had run the message to Singer a few days before. “Talbot.” The man looks up in surprise from his tin cup of black, bitter tea. “Please stand guard for me here. Stay hidden. Hide the evidence of the fire. Make sure that the Sergeant and his brother aren't caught unawares. If anything happens, run to Singer at head quarters. Let him know that myself and the men have gone to find an informant.”

  


“Yes Sir.” Talbot snapped whilst he jumped to attention.

  


“Take me to this inn then Corporal-” He left the sentence hanging, waiting for the Corporal to volunteer his name.

  


“Corbett, Sir.” He nodded before tilting his head in the direction of the seedier part of the city, letting the Corporal lead him and the men toward the inn where they would hopefully, finally, be able to get some information on Milton.

  


-

  


“Lafitte” Novak began. He had asked the Privates their names on the trudge through the grime filled alleys and ruined streets. At first they had looked sceptical, as if they were humouring the insane officer. Lafitte's face, though, on being addressed by his name not very much later, looked surprised, gratified. The American seemed calm, stoic and capable. “Tell me what you and the Sergeant found out about this man? Why do you think he is useful? And, what makes you think he will still be in there? The sword has been made, the deed done...”

  


They were standing underneath the stunted overhang of a tree, staying out of the glare of the afternoon sun. The inn was rotten, quiet, squalid and dilapidated. An ill looking, runty horse stood outside, tethered to another tree leaning against the wall of the building. Lafitte was rolling a makeshift cigarette, rummaging around in his ammunition pouch for the leaves. It occurred to Novak that the men probably smoked and drank a fifty-fifty mix of tea and tobacco with a healthy dose of gunpowder thrown in.

  


“Well, Sir. Sarge' there didn't get too much out of the mistress of the house. She was a little too canny for that Sir. But we know he's dark haired, probably English, not 'Merican.” He paused to take a deep drag on the now lit roll-up. He offered it to the Captain, obviously not wanting to share, but deferring to rank. Novak took the proffered cigarette, and inhaled whilst he absorbed the information. They were looking for a man with dark hair in an inn that he may or may not have vacated. It was looking like this was to be a futile adventure. As he handed the smoke back, Lafitte spoke up again. “There's this too though Sir. St John there, he likes to think he's charming, good with the ladies, you know? He may have helped distract a certain cook. And Corbett there. Children love him on account of him lookin' like one of them I fancy. He may have had a little chat with the boy who followed this man we're after.”

  


“Boy knows his stuff Sir, all for being half starved and covered in lice.” Lafitte shuddered at this. The army was rife with fleas and lice, but it never made them any less revolting. “He thought the man was in our army. Never saw him in uniform, but the boy recognised the man's weapons. I'd make a guess at a Lieutenant, if I had to Sir. Had a black greatcoat. He was staying in this shit hole Sir, the boy thinks, because despite looking like the hoards of purgatory have used it to crawl back in to our realm, the place apparently has a nigh on impregnable cellar which is firstly good for hiding in when an army riots, but also good for stashing the five year old vintage of the region. The boy heard the inn keeper complaining that all the coin in the city wouldn't pay for the amount the man was drinking. Unless he was ordered elsewhere, I'd guess at him still being inside Sir.”

  


Novak eyed the laconic American for a moment. The man was heavy set, bulky, easily noticed. He turned his attention to Corbett. As Lafitte had said, the man was baby faced. Couldn't be much beyond eighteen. St. John was older, late-twenties, a similar age to himself and Winchester he would hazard a guess. He was wiry and slim, all sinew and a charming grin.

  


“St. John. Corbett.” Both men looked up from their shared smoke. They had been talking to each other, too quietly for him to hear through his conversation with Lafitte. Their joint look of surprise matched Lafitte's at his use of their names. He sighed. The English and their damn use of social superiority and rank to make the less fortunate feel worthless and deride those who are more fortunate than them. “How good are you at behaving as if you're drunk?”

  


-

  


The men stumbled out of the inn, Corbett's arm gripping St. John's waist, St. John's arm slung about Corbett's shoulders. They were grinning. St. John was hiccoughing. Corbett slipped and fell to his knees. St. John starting laughing raucously around his hiccoughs. Corbett scowled, then bust in to laughter too, grinning inanely up at the Private. He crawled forward a few feet before St. John managed to get him back to his feet. They quietened after this. Both stumbling under their own steam, seemingly confused about which alley they should be walking down, away from the small square facing the inn. Eventually they bumped back together, Corbett pointing, and they wobbled toward the mouth of the darkened alley in the facsimile of a march.

  


All of this was watched fearsomely by a tiny man in a scrupulously clean apron, a rag in one hand, and the other curled about the stock of an ancient matchlock musket, fuse spewing a thin plume of smoke in to the still air.

  


Far in to the dark of the alley, and well out of sight, St. John and Corbett detached, although they still threw the odd yelp of laughter behind their shoulders, getting quieter and quieter to mimic their retreat from the tavern, in to the heart of the city. Novak and Lafitte emerged from their hiding place in the burnt out shell of a building abutting the alley.

  


He knew he ought to congratulate the men. Their performance had been excellent. Their hiding place had backed on to the square, and he had watched them enter the inn forty minutes previously, and watched again as they had stumbled back out. The inn keeper had clearly been taken in. He'd heard him threaten to castrate them if he saw their drunken hides in his inn ever again. He thought it prudent not to mention this to the Corporal and Private though, they may not wish to re-enter the building with him presently. He would reserve his judgement on whether they needed to or not depending on he contents their report.

  


“You.” He just looked at Corbett. He knew that St. John was probably the more competent, but this was the British army. Competence didn't matter where rank was involved.

  


“Er, um.” Corbett began. Novak had to restrain himself from rolling his eyes. They'd needed to go in and buy drink. It wouldn't exactly have been realistic otherwise. But clearly Corbett couldn't hold his liquor. That or they'd taken his coin, and added to it with their own. Forty minuets to a soldier is a lot of drinking.

  


“When you're ready Corporal.” Corbett baulked and swallowed repeatedly. “There was a man. Average height, thick build. Dark hair. Old for a soldier. Mid- to Late-thirties maybe. Not in uniform, but everything about him was military. And wealthy. Definitely an officer. He was holding a crystal glass of wine. Everyone else in there had wine skins or tin mugs of rum and brandy.”

  


Novak raised his eyebrows. “Right. You two stay here. Drink more and I will skin you alive. You. Lafitte, follow me.”


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a wee chapter this week I'm afraid.

Winchester forgot the existence of the war, of the broken down building around him, the smell of smoke and death in the air, the presence of his commanding officer, all of it; the moment his brother swivelled on the chair set facing the cold fireplace.

He couldn't move. He couldn't breathe. The man that he had, despite all his posturing to the contrary, believed dead since he lost sight of him on the breach that night, was before him.

Sam.

“Sammy?”

“Dean” His brother answered.

They collided in a hard embrace. He took in Sam's hair, longer than he remembered, damp and loose. The smell of him, of sour wine, battle, stale water, but still Sam. They pulled apart and he held him at arms length, he saw the hallow eyes, sunken cheeks, sallow skin and bloody lips. Under his hands, his brothers arms were thin, weak. The man was shaking, but then so was he.

“Dean. I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry.” Sam started, eyes huge and wounded. “It's all right, little brother. Me too.” His chest felt tight. Sam was alive. “What- What happened to you? I- You- You were there one second, then you were gone. I thought you'd been shot, but there was no way you would have gone so easy, not without calling out to me. No way, right? Sammy?”

Sam looked as if he was about to cry, but then his shoulders sagged, and he slumped back in to the chair, seemingly unable to support himself any longer.

Sam launched in to his tale, the only interruption when Winchester got up to tear in to a package of bread that had mysteriously appeared in the ash filled hearth without either brother noticing.

It seemed like weeks, months later when Sam was finished talking. The dark of early evening surrounded them. “So. You're telling me that you got a ricochet to the head, there was an explosion and you were blown down the breach, under a load of other bodies? You woke up, and started working as protection to girls in a whore house and got paid with wine? And, you are so dependant that you didn't even notice a two month siege?” He ran his hand through his shorn hair and across the back of his neck. “And then, you were so inebriated that you tried to rob an officer from your own company? Which lucky for you, happened to be Novak, who I had asked to look for you, and for some insane reason seems to have decided not to arrest you, because I'm sure as hell he didn't agree to spare you for my benefit. Jesus Sammy.” He pinched the bridge of his nose, eyes shut. What was he meant to do with this.

“The Captain seems a good man, Dean. He's made sure I'm fed, and clothed and clean. Which is more than I've done for myself for six months. I- I don't want to go back to that. To just a haze of drink and women. I couldn't tell one day from another. Today, I feel terrible, I need wine, but it's the first day I've had clarity for months, Dean, months. I thought I loved Ruby. I mourned her. And, today? I still feel that way, Dean, I do, but I'm starting to think that maybe it's wrong. Maybe there's more out there. I didn't look for you Dean, and I regret that. And I want to make that up to you. I want to make it up to the boys too. And I want to be able to thank the Captain. I want to make good.”

“Good.” A voice full of the bass of thunder and the electricity of lightening sounded from the crumbling door way. The brothers both jumped and whipped around, the Sergeant significantly faster than the younger man. “You can start now.”

-

Lafitte squared his muscular shoulders before following his Captain through the doorway to the tavern. His Captain was maybe an inch taller than himself, but much slimmer, wiry. At an initial glance he seemed thin and weak, but having seen him in the breach, wielding his hefty sword, so obviously lacking at his side now, Laffy knew the Captain was made of sterner stuff. 

Laffy didn't understand Winchester's dislike of the man. Up until Novak had shown up at their billet and asked for the Sergeant's help, Winchester had wasted neither comment nor breath on the Captain. He was too distant. Technically the Sergeant reported to the Ensigns, who reported to the Lieutenants, who reported to the Captain. In reality the Ensigns were mostly jumped in the hierarchy. But none the less, Winchester had never been addressed by, nor addressed the Captain. He had not made judgement about his fighting style, nor form of dress, or his mimicry of the English class system. But, all of a sudden, Winchester had nothing good to say about the man.

Laffy didn't have the same issue. The Captain was aloof and quiet, hard and unforgiving, but strong and brave and a damned good fighter as far as he could tell. He was proud to serve under him. The strangeness of this mission aside, he was happy to be fighting alongside Captain Novak.

The interior of the inn was smoke filled, the air heavy with it. The Captain had stopped just inside the door, completely ignoring the attentions of the tiny bartender who was hovering about the officer. Laffy pulled himself up a little taller, and consequently wider, tilting his chin up, trying to stare down at the diminutive Spaniard.

It was unnecessary though, without even a look Novak waved the man off, unconsciously commanding, assured in his superiority, and he scuttled back to his bar, cloth in hand.

Novak spotted his prey. The Corporal's description had been accurate. The man in the dark coat, with dark hair was clearly of a better class than most. He naturally inhabited his space, small, crystal wine glass held lightly in his hand, sipping delicately.

Novak, with out any hesitation, sat down at the table in front of the non-uniformed officer. “Good afternoon.” His voice rang out. Laffy watched the other man start, raising an eyebrow quickly in an enquiring glance. He nodded, not saying anything. Lafitte moved behind Novak, stood at his shoulder, perfectly at attention. Proving his loyalty and steadfastness to this stranger.

The man glanced up at him briefly and smirked. No fear there. Then his gaze returned to Novak, sipping again at the crystal flute of fine wine. Laffy could smell the sweet, smoky, red fruit aroma even from where he stood. It made him feel a little sick. 

“Let us cut to the chase.” Novak began, and Lafitte could hear steel in his voice. “I am fairly certain that the name Milton will mean something to you, yes?” The man's eyes widened at that, but he still said nothing.

“Now, I know you are of the army, that much is obvious. I could have you arrested for not wearing uniform. That's desertion. You are aware of how that is punished?” The man changed little, although Lafitte, in the haze filled interior, could see the man's face pale. “I think we could negotiate a deal. Don't you?” At that, the man's face lit up. It's not relief, Lafitte thinks, it's something else. Greed perhaps. This man seemed mercenary.

The man finally opened his mouth to speak. Inclining his head in a small bow he says; “Lieutenant Crowley. At your service Captain, Sir.” 

Benny phases out while this Crowley and Novak talk terms. It should be as simple as the Captain giving the Lieutenant orders, but something was preventing Novak from asserting his authority that way. It went above Lafitte's head. His mind drifted to his girl, back home in America. He'd started on the ships to raise the money to offer her his hand in marriage. He meant to do one run, then talk to her father. He'd never returned. Drink had been his failing once too often, but, knowing that didn't help him stay strong, even now. 

He thought about Winchester's dislike of the Captain once again as he heard the man in question agree to equal what ever Milton had paid him. He didn't understand the Sergeant's dislike. Maybe it was embarrassment at having the Captain walk in on him mid-coitus. Although he'd never known his fellow countryman to be coy about anything before, hell, they'd all heard, if not seen him making love more than once. It was kind of hard not to when, if you were lucky, there was just a thin sheet of canvas between you and the outside world, more usually; a thin screen of shrubs or just the veil of darkness. The camp's women were not shy and retiring folk either, they lived their lives on the road, following the army. Everyone knew and saw everything about everyone. 

Novak agreed to impunity for Crowley. It seemed to him that the Captain was giving the Lieutenant everything he wanted. He wondered if maybe Novak wasn't planning on sticking to his word. 

What Winchester's problem was, Lafitte decided, was the possibility that he felt threatened. Ensign Driel looked up to Winchester like an older brother, like the sun shone out of his arse. The Lieutenant had been little different. Winchester gave the orders, but he gave them in such a way that his superiors had thought it was their idea. Or they outright looked for help from the man. In battle Winchester rarely waited for orders, he told the men what to do, knowing that his officers would either agree whole heartedly, or they wouldn't dare accuse him of subversion, in case they looked weak, seeing as the Sergeant hadn't got it wrong once yet. He wasn't able to try that with Novak. The Captain was confident, competent, sure footed, and certain of his rank. Laffy thought that he would take a suggestion from a lower ranking man, but would take it only as that and nothing more. The sergeant was probably wondering how he was going to continue in his ways; drinking, fighting and sleeping his way through the army with every officer fawning over him because he was damn good at what he did, when Novak watched his every move. And, Novak looked as if he couldn't give a fuck whether Winchester was there or not. That would explain Dean's dislike pretty thoroughly, he mused.

He started as Novak stood up. Business done, the Captain turned and walked from the tavern, not once looking behind him. Lafitte sent Crowley one last look full of scorn before turning and following his Captain from the room.


	16. Chapter 16

Novak marched up to the door of the billet in which Talbot was leaning slackly against the door jam, roll up dangling mournfully from his mouth, a thin stream of smoke drifting in the still air. Corbett, Lafitte and St. John were close on his heels. Talbot rushed to stand to attention upon noticing the men advancing up the street. “With me, Private.” Novak grunts out before slipping about him in to the room beyond. 

Before him, he saw Winchester poking at some merge sticks smouldering in the fireplace, Sam sitting up right in the chair with a tin cup pressed to his lips as he mumbled about wanting to be able to make it up to him. “Good.” He said out loud, making the elder brother jerk around, and snap upright to attention. Sam's response time was much slower, slewing around in his seat, surprise written on his face. “You can start now-” He eyed the younger man. His eyes still sunken, but looking much more alert than earlier in the day. He could see his hands shaking where they were still wrapped around the mug. “-Private.”

Both brothers started at his inference, clearly surprised, although why, he didn't understand. There was no other option for him or them than re-enlistment, unless he arrested the man, which he didn't think would garner much support with his men. 

He fixed Sam with a glare, trying to force the meaning behind his words in to the man through his withdrawal laced haze. “You have been injured and off active duty, as soon as you are fit you will be returning to the line. The company book was in error and will soon be rectified. Do you understand?” He turned his head briefly to include all the men standing about the room. “Do you all understand?” A quiet chorus of 'Yes Sir''s met his question. 

“Excellent. I suggest we continue then.”

“We have acquired some intelligence from a Lieutenant named Crowley. I do not know which regiment he is attached to as he scorned wearing his uniform, but he is, without a doubt, attached to the British army. He informed me that he was hired by Barty Milton to commission a sword to the man's specification. They undertook to have it made shortly after we began the siege of the city. Crowley was some how able to gain admittance to the city in order to find an artisan willing to achieve this. I assume Milton or Crowley were just waiting for an opportune moment to slaughter someone and set it up in my name. Crowley was ever so kind as to let me know Milton's whereabouts.”

“I do not trust Crowley though, despite our agreement, just as much as he, quite rightly, does not trust me to uphold my end of the bargain. So we must move fast if we wish to capture Milton. Crowley, sadly, decided to uphold some of his moral code and refused to tell me why Milton had decided to have me framed for murder and court-marshalled. So, it is even more important that we capture, not kill, Milton. I will not be framed for murder, only to become a murderer in the process of clearing my name.”

“Now, your input is welcome,” here he pierced each soldier with a glare, “but, here are my thoughts on how to flush out that smarmy, conniving, festering shite; Milton.”

-

It was late, gone one in the morning according to the plain silver pocket watch Novak retrieved from the fob in his jacket. Novak had reached out and laid a hand against his forearm as he went to leave with his men. “I wish to speak to you, Winchester. Would you ask the men to billet in here with Sam tonight? We'll need them close in order to leave on time. When you're done join me in my rooms.”

The Captain turned in the darkness toward the next shadowed hole of a door way in the crumbling façade without checking to see if he was being obeyed.

“Boys.” He whispered. They all turned fixing him with a series of tired and excited glances. “In with Sam tonight. We're up in a few hours. Get some sleep. I'll wake you.” They nodded and filed back in to the room, no doubt finding the most comfortable section of floor to lie out on.

He took a deep breath. Novak was… a better man than he had given him credit for originally. Sam had explained his situation. He was appalled, and disgusted that his little brother had been so weak as to get him self he led astray by a whore with a skin of cheap wine. But it had happened. And thanks to the Captain, his brother was not only no longer lost to him, but he was fed and clean, and probably not going to be shot for desertion. He just had to ensure that Sam was done with the bottle and they could face the war together again, march together again.

He was still a bastard, born an American, yet with the privilege of rank, money and respectability. Everything Sam and himself had never had. A dead mother and an alcoholic father and a life on the run was all they could boast. But, Novak had done all he said we would do with respect to his brother, and more. He had brought them food and given them time to talk and recount the past year without him even having to ask or plead for permission. 

And, the man was a tactician too. Throughout the evening of planning he had listened quietly to each man's ideas, and while he had spurned most of then he explained why, which was more than many an officer had done. Not that many officers had needed to quash his own suggestions, or dared. Novak was… difficult. But worthy of a grudging respect at this point. Now all he had to explain away to him self was why his forearm felt hot through the layers of fabric, where the man had gently pressed his palm to get his attention.

He ducked his head under the lintel, not knowing what to expect from his officer now that they had their mission worked out for the morning. Inside he found the man standing in he main room by the large hearth. The man had unbuttoned the top few inches of his jacket and pulled off the black cotton stock he wore wrapped about his throat, where most officers would wear silk. Winchester remembered the first night he had seen him up close, when he had met him in the bar after the Captain had walked in on him being ridden by Pam. Strangely he felt more embarrassed by that situation now than he had then. He remembered his first impression of the man. In his dress uniform, fine, rich fabric and a sickened, fearful, yet resigned and stoic expression plastered across his strong features. The silk from his throat had disappeared that night. The man had roughed it just as he and his men had throughout this whole affair. 

Novak swallowed and took a breath. Winchester realised he had been staring at the man's adam's apple. “Sergeant” the Captain said quietly. Winchester watched fascinated as Novak looked down, seemingly discomforted, a state he'd not seen in the Captain before. He felt a heat rise in his own cheeks in response, remembered the pressure of Novak's hand on his arm. “I need to ask another favour. One, Winche- Dean, that I am uncomfortable asking of you. I will not think less of you if you refuse, I guarantee you that.” Winchester just waited, willing away the ridiculous nervousness he felt tugging at his innards. 

“I need my sword. Not only would I be God damned useless in a fight without it, but it's more to me than just a weapon and I cannot fight my enemy with out it. It is my name, my pride, my honour.” Novak sighed and his right hand unconsciously grabbed at the empty space at the neck of his scabbard. Winchester felt about seventy percent relief, fifteen percent trepidation and another fifteen percent regret. And, he couldn't fathom the 'why' behind any of it.

“Where is it being held?” He asked, and he saw Novak's eyes swing in an arc from somewhere near his knees and settle steadfastly on Winchester's own eyes in the gloom. “It will be at headquarters. Quite possibly Adler's quarters. I suggest we start with Singer though. I appear to have his confidence. I don't think he would make a fuss if a Sergeant were to perhaps take it away for cleaning, or something equally transparent. He'll work out who took it and for whom anyway, and I suspect he'll hide the act for as long as he can. I just hope we're not running out of time. Adler won't wait much longer.” He huffed a quiet laugh. “And, nor will Milton.” With this Novak sighed and wrapped his arms about his chest, hugging himself. Winchester felt it was like watching a monolith stop itself from turning to dust by force of will alone, or a storm cloud hold on to the sky to stop itself from being blown to shreds. He had the strangest desire to go and help hold the Captain together

“Of course I'll go, Sir. Can't have you fighting without a weapon can we? We have enough useless officers as it is.” He said this last grinning, hoping that Novak would take strength from his confidence in him. The man looked up and let his arms fall, the corner of his mouth quirking up, his eyes radiating warmth and gratitude. “Thank you Sergeant. If we go now we can hopefully return in time to get some sleep before dawn.”

“We, Sir?” Novak sighed, a slightly nauseas look passing across his face. “You may need some help in the form of a distraction from the outside I suspect, I may have to help draw them off you.”

-

Winchester watched the silver clouds ghost across the sky, obliterating the moon and turning the streets pitch black. A blessing for their plans that evening. Winchester glanced at the Captain striding up the street next to him, keeping to the darkest shadows. “Permission to speak Sir?” Novak looked across to him, surprise quickly sinking in to the blank face he normally sported, evident even in the dank shadows. “You're about to enter the headquarters of the British Army in Spain, in order to steal a confiscated sword for your not-yet-disgraced officer. I'd say that earns you a certain freedom of speech to said Captain, yes.” Winchester rolled his eyes, hoping the movement was covered by the lack of light. Novak snorted. Clearly it wasn't.

“I was just interested as to why this Milton would go to such lengths Sir, to frame you. It seems...unnecessarily elaborate?”

Novak chuckled humourlessly. “It is. And, I don't understand. I mean, I understand why Milton wants to cause me problems, even get me killed, or kill me himself if it comes to that. Our two families aren't exactly on the best of terms. But, the framing for murder? Getting my sword copied? It is unnecessary. There must be something else at play here than envy over who got the better farm back in the day, who had rights to trade tobacco, sugar and slaves, and who took which side in the revolution. That's what the Milton's and the Novak's fight over, and sometimes, yes, kill over. But I left the God damned family for that reason. I couldn't give a damn about most of that. I don't want to sit in my fathers home he built from the backs of slaves just watching the money roll in. I want to be my own man. I fought the Milton's on our sugar plantations when they told me to, when they tried to take them, but- I didn't understand. I was young. And, I decided it was all so- so vapid. Empty. Worthless. Just to obtain money and a wife and an estate. I didn't want to be Old Novak's good, obedient son set to inherit it all. I wanted to be… me; Castiel Novak. So. I really don't understand why Milton would be interested in me now, when I've essentially excommunicated myself from the entire ridiculous mess.” The man's voice had been steadily getting louder and more irate as they marched toward headquarters. When he finished his rant, he started and looked about with guilt written across his face. Winchester laughed quietly. “Just another mystery so solve then, huh, Sir?”

-

Winchester stared in awe, breath caught in his throat. He was far from knowledgeable, but even he could see the beautiful sword in his hands was of no ordinary workmanship. The steal blade was sharpened to a whisper fine edge all the way up to the hilt. The grip was alternating black leather and copper wire, worn where Novak had held the sword in his hands so many times. The guard was a part cage, wrapping about the knuckles. The cage was a pair of simple filigree wings in highly polished steal, one arching and curling up towards the pommel, the other wrapping underneath and creating the hilt itself. They looked strong but as if they were writhing in pain. Where the wings met in the middle, at the apex of the hilt to the cage, instead of a figure, there was a boiling mass of copper flame and inlaid black stone as smoke, flecks of rubies like sparks. A fallen angel exploding on impact like a grenade on a breach.

“Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit.” Winchester whispered under his breath. Footsteps were approaching down the stripped and bare corridor just the other side of the door. Hiding wasn't much of an option, nor was jumping out of the window. The pacing stopped outside of the closed door, the murmuring of quiet voices sounded through the heavy wood. “Shiiiiit.” He silently darted across the room, cursing Singer internally. The engineer, an abrupt but good man, had smirked and suggested that he might find a sword, if he were looking for such a thing, in Adler's quarters, and that the Major wasn't expected back from dinner with the General until much later. Clearly he had been mistaken. The door was pushed open and the voices suddenly rose in volume, no longer dampened through the barrier. “Tomorrow? Yes my Lord.” A whiny voice spoke. Another sighed heavily, and sounded exasperated. “Goodnight Adler.” He remained frozen, standing behind the door, breath held. Adler, his Major, walked across the room and stood facing the window, one of the few still holding glass in it's lead in the city, as far as Winchester could tell. Adler's stance was planted, legs wide, hands held behind his back. He was humming. Winchester listened for the footsteps of the other man. They were going away in the opposite direction to that which he had to take. Gripped in his sweaty palms was Novak's sword. It was now or never.

Without hesitation or even a parting glance he flitted around the open door and out in to the hall way followed by a yelp and a shout of “You! Stop!” as a parting gift from Adler.

He pelted down the corridor, found the stairs at the end without interruption, Adler was not quick on his feet. He nearly went flying down the stairs as he misjudged his leap down the first four treads. Turning a corner on the landing he came face to face with three officers, all of which were too slow to react. He took a gamble and threw him self over the banister, dropping ten feet to the marble floor below. Miraculously he didn't fumble his landing, bent knees, a roll, avoiding the deadly weapon in his hands, and a scramble back to his feet before he pushed his way out of the open double front door of the building. 

Before he hit the maze of streets where Novak must surely still be hiding he was yelling “run, run, run!” He didn't let up his pace, sucking deep breaths in to his lungs as he near flew down a dark alley. “Left! Left!” He heard Novak bark behind him, closer than he'd thought, and he dived down a dark street to his left without question or thought.

It was only then that he registered the thumping of perusing feet, or the lack thereof. Novak had drawn off the men giving chase, had sent him on a different route. Now what was he to do?

He kept running at full tilt, taking a circuitous route back to their billet. Dark doorways and small fires, groups of sleeping soldiers and piles of corpses flashed past him as he sped away. He entered the near deserted area that they were bunking down in, the eerie quiet holding still in the dark of the early morning. He came to a stop not too far from the hovels the men were in. He sucked air down, deep in to his straining lungs. He was not built for running. 

He couldn't hear anything. Silence.

He didn't know how long he stayed there, waiting for something, anything to prove that he had not led anyone back to their position. He must have stayed there, pressed up against slick, moss covered stone for nigh on thirty minutes when he heard quiet cautious steps edging past the end of the alley he was hidden in. A flash of white in the dark caught his eye. 

Holding the sword in the guard position, despite it probably being a liability as he had no idea how to use a blade such as that, he crept down the alley toward the man he was sure he'd seen walk past. Only one. Unlikely to be soldiers chasing a thief. Perhaps they had gone to the Company, thinking he'd stolen it for his Captain and returned to the bivouac. 

He peered around the corner of the alley, rotten stone smelling dank this close up. He bit his lip when he realised he was closer to their billet than he had thought, further along the street were the two buildings with crumbling door ways and tumbledown roofs, the red dot of the lit end of a roll up dancing in the night, and the men's white trousers dimly glowing in the moonless night. He could hear the deep tone of his Captain and the worried voice of St. John standing picket.

He let out his breath in a rush, not realising he had been holding it. He was still too far away to see, but knowing his Captain had made it back sent a rush of relief through him. As he walked quietly up the alley toward St. John, he watched the silhouette of Novak move toward his own billet. St. John was instantly on guard when he saw Winchester, and he questioned the night with a “Who goes there?” “Just me.” He replied easily, raising the swords hilt with a wide grin on his face. At Balthazar's “Pass, friend,” he slipped silently in to Novak's building.

Inside, Novak was no where to be seen. Winchester carefully took the staircase to the room he had found Novak in the first morning. He was brought up short when he stepped in to the room and the moon took that moment to break through the cloud cover, illuminating the Captain, shirtless standing by the window, muscles of his back slinking under his skin has he leant his arm at chest height against the wall.

An unearthly creak announced his entrance to the room as his weight caused a floorboard to cry it's protest. Novak flinched and span to face Winchester, his torso defined and cut deep by the white light and black shadow. “You're safe?” Winchester wanted to take it as an almost accusation. Novak should be worried that he'd led soldiers to their hiding place. But, he almost fancied he could hear concern in the man's tone. “I- um, yea- yes. Uh. Your sword.” He held the blade out, hilt first, long sharp edge pointed behind him, past his hip. His palms were slick again, he swallowed audibly. 

Novak's face lit up. He held the blade aloft, almost seeming to commune with the burning angel on the hilt. The man lowered the beautiful weapon, and took a hesitant step toward him, an arm reaching out. “Thank you Sergeant. This- This is everything; my honour, my name, freedom from my family and a reminder of my faith in myself. Thank you, Dean.” 

He blinked, trying to banish the image of the ethereal man in front of him, lit with burning moonlight, baring his soul over a lethally sharp blade. “I- I'd better go and get some rest Sir. Um, in the- er.” He'd already turned and started down the stairs before he realised he hadn't articulated a proper sentence.


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, another short chapter this week.

It was that bleak flat pre-dawn light that Laffy hated. The birds hadn't even woken up, silence prevailed. Novak led, a hand held against his scabbard to stop it making a sound as he walked, his grip, finally, happily, wrapped about his sword hilt. Winchester followed closely behind, watching, alert. St. John and himself came next, gun held high and safe, bayonet attached. Talbot followed, eyes wide. Corbett brought up the rear. Novak had declared Sam unfit, and left him behind despite Winchester's loud protests.

Lafitte would reflect later that that, perhaps, was the first sign that things weren't to go their way that day.

Novak held up his arm, fist bunched, elbow bent, they halted in silence. How the Captain had spotted it, whether it was movement or sound, Laffy didn't know, but from a darkened street conjoining with the one they were on, emerged a dark figure, long coat swinging about his knees.

The man, Laffy could just about tell, was holding a blade low, his stride quick. Without the Captain's telling, the men all huddled deep in the shadows still eclipsing their side of the street. Their red jackets and white trousers were hardly designed for stealth, and once again Laffy felt huge jealousy for the Rifles and their dark green uniforms.

The man's shadow swallowed him as he passed under the skeleton of a burnt tree before sliding down another street, the one they were headed for. He heard Winchester murmur “Crowley?” to Novak, who nodded once, his shoulders tense, his movement jerky. It looked as if they were in the process of being double crossed. They had expected it. Planned for it. But they had all hoped against it. Novak started out across the street, more brazen now their known enemy was ahead of them. Winchester looked behind him and jerked his head to indicate that they should follow. 

Still moving carefully they approached the entrance to the street that Crowley had vanished in to. They knew after sending St. John on reconnaissance the previous evening, that ahead of them would be a dishevelled inn. Foul and slick with dung heaps and refuse. According to Crowley's information, inside was clean and refined. Milton's billet. There was an exterior staircase running behind the building against the back wall, leading to a suite of rooms leased by Milton for months prior to the beginning of the siege. 

Novak turned and bent his head close to Winchesters' and spoke quietly in to the man's ear. Winchester looked up, eyes wide, mouth grim, but he nodded and turned toward Laffy and the others. “Benny, Balth. Come on” he whispered and hefted his musket.

They crept down the street, keeping to the dark pools of shadow, keeping the figure of Crowley in their sights. The man was brazen, he didn't look around once. Laffy wondered if the man knew he was being followed. St. John was fuming with rage. Balth's sense of honour was stronger than his own. Crowley having been paid off by Novak ought to stay, if not on their side, then out of it. Lafitte could see the slim man's chest puffing up in rage the closer Crowley got to the foul stench of the hideout. 

He stiffened when he saw Crowley finally throw a glance over his shoulder with a hideous grin plastered across his features. The man quickly slipped around the corner of the building toward the out of sight stairs leading to Milton's apartment. “The arrogant, conniving, dishonourable swine” St. John grunted out. Winchester hissed at him to stay quiet before breaking in to a jog and hurrying after Crowley.

Behind him, Lafitte could hear Novak, Talbot and Corbett break in to a run as Winchester turned to face him at the bottom of the steps. “You stay here and hold the rear Laffy. Keep Talbot with you when they get here. Got it?” Benny didn't bother replying, he just planted his feet, his musket ready in his hand.

-

St. John was furious. This poor excuse of a man had double crossed them. If you were going to be a man of little honour, you had to keep some standards, he felt. The little bastard scurrying ahead of them had sunk too low in his opinion.

He flew up the stairs behind his Sergeant, not waiting on Novak's arrival. The scene before him fed his anger. Milton was there; a tall man, slim, blond, with a sneering face set in a smirk of dislike. He was handing Crowley a purse of coins. Winchester didn't even have time to lunge forward with his bayonet-fitted-musket before Novak and Corbett barrelled in to the room, Novak yelling “Don't!” to Winchester. “He stays alive, Dean. Alive. You hear me?” “Shit.” Winchester muttered, holding himself back. St. John moved next to Corbett, blocking the exit through the doorway and down the stairs. 

“Bartholemew.” Novak stated, carefully circling Milton and Crowley. “Cousin.” Milton replied, inclining his head. St. John despised him on sight, he could see Novak's dislike in the set of his shoulders, the tense tone of his voice. 

“Setting me up for murder, Barty? That's a new low, even for you. You do remember that I disowned the family? That even if you succeed, then it will hardly bring any shame to the name Novak. I think they'd be relieved to be honest, Bart. So what was all this about?” Novak was eerily calm, not a waver to his voice.

Milton laughed, and let loose a humourless smile. “Oh Cassie. It really isn't about you. You were, well, are, an inconvenience I'm afraid. I am aware of your self imposed exile. But, you know who I am, you would have seen me soon enough, now that you've joined this God forsaken little army.” Milton sounded bored, almost.

“You-” From his position at the back of the room St. John could only see the back of Novak's head as he tilted it, a confused tone creeping in to his voice. “You're spying. For the French.” How Novak had jumped to that conclusion from Milton's words St. John would never know.

“Your father. He was indebted to the French wasn't he? In the war? Are you in their pay? You infiltrated the British army for the French because your father owes them for help in the revolution?” Novak's voice had turned incredulous at this. St. John knew next to nothing about the revolutionary war in America, but he knew the French had had a hand in helping to defeat the British fighting there, and the Loyalists on their side. Milton was clearly not a loyalist. 

“And, you needed rid of me, because I know you, your history and will expose you?” Novak was pacing a little by now. Clearly furious. “You disgust me Barty. I didn't think you could sink lower. Feeding secrets from one side to another in a war that doesn't even concern you.”

“Well, clearly, young Castiel, you are still following your fathers old loyalties too, even if he has had the decency to see sense and declare support for the American nation. Look at you playing soldier for a nation that cares nothing for you.”

“Whether or not the nation cares for me, I at least care for my company. I will fight to the death for my men, and that is a family I prefer to have around me.”

“Yes, but would they fight and die for you? I think not. Do they consider you family? I highly doubt it.”

St. John suddenly realised that Novak was a good man. A good strategist. Brave, loyal, strong, and fiercely independent, unlike many officers, hanging from their fathers purse stings, and their superiors' every word. Novak was belligerent, opinionated and laughably unafraid of the consequences of acting on his impulses. He thought back to Winchester's story last night of their escapade to acquire Novak's sword from under their Major's nose. It suddenly struck him that when they get another Lieutenant drafted, and they go back to the company proper that he was going to miss this quiet, considerate, violent and aggressive Captain of theirs. He would fight for the man, he would die for him, just as much as he would die for Winchester or Lafitte. Suddenly he knew what he had to do. 

Novak had paused in their battle of words. He didn't know. He didn't believe that the men liked him. He thought Milton was right. 

St. John stepped up to Novak, just a half step behind him, almost shoulder to shoulder, chest flung out, teeth bared, glaring at Milton. He didn't turn to look at the Captain, but he could see from the corner of his eye Novak's swift glance at him.

St. John felt Corbett join him, shoulders thrown back, head up, breath harsh, fury in every twitch of his body. He waited a beat. He knew Winchester and the Captain had had words over the past few days. He knew Winchester's general dislike of the man, but he thought Novak had his respect at least. He hoped the Sergeant would act in support of their Captain. 

Suddenly the Sergeant took the step and stood hemming Novak in from the other side, every aspect of his body radiating loyalty toward Novak and fury toward Milton. 

St. John felt affection for Winchester swell in his chest as the Sergeant spoke up, clearly in lieu of Novak's response. “He's our Captain you little shit. We know loyalty, we know who our family is, we know what it is to fight and die alongside those we love. I will fight for him and I will die for him, gladly. Me and every single man in his Company.”

Milton's only response was to sneer. He eyed the wall of four strong men, vibrating with repressed anger and hatred. For every secret that Milton had uncovered and passed to the French they had potentially lost a friend, a brother to a bullet, a bayonet, or a canister exploding in the sky. Nothing could save Milton from them.

That is, aside from Milton snatching a hold of the cowering Crowley and throwing him in to Novak's solid frame, and his leaping from the window behind him in one swift movement.


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the chapter requiring the Graphic Violence warning, just as an extra heads up. Super short, not very sweet.
> 
> Hope y'all enjoy it and are still following along...

Winchester looked on, wide eyed while his Captain let out an 'ooft' noise when Crowley's full weight collided with him. Novak stumbled back, his left arm flailing to keep his balance, his right arm, holding his precious sword, at the ready. Crowley was too close, within his guard, though, so his weapon was next to useless. Winchester could see the agony on Novak's face that his prey, his tormentor had not only escaped, but had effectively blocked the Captain's pursuit. 

Winchester lunged to try and pull Crowley out of the way and got a handful of greatcoat. The cowardly bastard looked shocked at having been used so unceremoniously as cannon fodder to Milton's escape. The room was too small, too cramped for all five of them, weaponry cutting through the air from different angles. Winchester noted it when St. John slipped through the open door way, no doubt to grab the other two standing guard at the bottom of the steps and give chase to Milton on ground level. Winchester's attention elsewhere, Crowley managed to slip from his tenuous grasp on his black coat, but his distraction had been sufficient. Novak had managed to throw the man back away from his chest and within the reach of his formidable blade. Neither Winchester nor Corbett could do anything but look on as the Captain engaged the Lieutenant, who whipped out his own heavy blade the second he was able. The betrayed look on the man's face quickly gave way to a calculating and cunning one.

Novak gave no inch, and lunged forward immediately, his sword striking with brute force and well practised finesse against the shorter man's. Novak's balance was impeccable has he rained blow after blow against Crowley, keeping him on the defence. 

During the night, when the dreams had him, Winchester would look back at that moment, able to see the exact second when Crowley stopped playing by the rules and started trying to win, trying to survive.

Crowley lashed out with his left arm, landing a punishing blow to Novak's side with his fist. The Captain grunted and swerved avoiding a kick to his shin. The Lieutenant deflected another attack by Novak before running his sword under Novak's defence and nearly filleting him. Only Novak's finely honed reflexes saved him. The Captain's blade flickered through the early dawn light, first engaging Crowley's sword on the man's right, then dancing to the left, a jab, a slash, a down-stroke. He landed a gash against Crowley's left arm as the man made ready to throw another punch against Novak's sword arm. Crowley hissed and danced, surprisingly light on his feet, out of reach for a moment.

The two men took a few seconds to draw breath and reassess the situation. Novak was the better sword's man, but in the limited space Crowley was equally matched with his dirty techniques. 

All it took was a few drops of Crowley's blood to hit the scrubbed wooden floor boards to re-start the action. Crowley was the one on the offence suddenly, furiously slashing with his sword, aiming kicks and punches when he could. Novak was pushed back. With no room to retreat in to from the onslaught, he took a glancing cut to his temple before he wildly twisted himself out of reach, spinning back across the room, flicking his head to keep the spewing blood from obscuring his vision.

-

Winchester felt chills erupt down his spine as he watched, frozen. He was merely a spectator. He couldn't have stopped it. Events moved outside of time and he was left there watching in horror.

With his bulky musket, and being hemmed in to the corner of the room behind Novak, he had the perfect view of Corbett screaming at the mercenary Lieutenant and swinging his bayonet mounted musket around at head height directly at the man. Novak, momentarily dazed by the head wound was watching open mouthed, incapable of intervening. Corbett's attack was sloppy, he was over balanced, too angry to see straight. 

Crowley simply ducked under the bayonet and stabbed his sword upward in to Corbett's belly, grunting as he wrenched the sword up and out, spilling Corbett's guts on to the unnaturally clean floor.

Winchester's vision narrowed to a small tunnel watching Corbett's face. Surprise etched across his features as he toppled to the ground, hands clutching at the steaming red mess hanging from his middle.

His ears weren’t working. All was silence. He could feel the blood pumping around his skull, fast and uneven. A strange, animal sound started up. Somewhere between a keen and a roar.

He watched, everything seemingly at half speed as the Captain, mouth taut, face white with fury, raised his arm in an almighty swing, the Angel Blade singing as it cut through the air. 

It connected. 

It caved in the side of Crowley's head. 

All movement stopped as the abrupt halt to Novak's deadly swing reverberated up the Captain's arm. With a harsh tug, and a yell that didn't register in Winchester's ears, Novak withdrew the blade from the man's skull, sending forth a plume of blood and brain. The body hit the floor.

Sounds, speed and vision snapped back. He could hear Novak's harsh breathing, almost a sob, a hitched breath every now and then. The man was leaning on his sword, point digging in to the hard wood of the floor, painted red with soldiers blood. Corbett was still twitching, blood pumping its self out on to the floor. The dead Lieutenant was making the noises the recently dead make, twitching too. It was obscene. Novak was shaking, his mouth pulled in to a white grimace as he muttered in quiet fury.

“Not my men. You do not kill my men.” Winchester heard him repeat and repeat.

“Come on Sir. We need to leave. We need to leave now. We need to find Milton. Milton, Sir.”

The Captain looked at him, unseeing, all glassy eyed stare, blood and grey matter spattered across his angular features. Winchester grabbed his forearm, avoiding the gore covered blade in his hand. “Sir! We need to find cover. Re-group. We need to get to Milton Sir.” He shouted in Novak's face. The captain blinked. “Milton” he said thickly. “Shit. I just- Fuck. Milton! We must get back. We need to-” “I know Sir. Let's go. The others went after him.” Winchester watched as Novak eyed the crumpled form of Crowley. He looked ashamed, appalled, and slightly awed. 

Winchester considered. It would have taken a berserker's red hazed fury to be able to do that to a man.

He felt momentary pity for this man's enemies, and was glad that, despite their differences, he wasn't one.


	19. Chapter 19

Winchester lead Novak back to their billet, the Captain still in a slight daze; silent, frowning, and gore splattered. It was still early in the morning. If this part of the city were occupied, there would still be little chance of anyone seeing them, none the less he kept them to the shadowed streets and back ways.

 

On entering the hovel, he found the other men; Talbot, St. John and Lafitte. They all stared on aghast as the Captain followed him inside, all asking a slew of questions about the blood, was the Captain injured, and where was Corbett.

 

Winchester looked at Novak, wondering if he was going to take charge, but he was clearly still in shock, consumed by his actions.

 

“Balth, Ned. If you can, can you go hide Crowley's body? That scum doesn't deserve a burial. I'm sorry lads, Corbett didn't make it either. We can't risk bringing him back here, and it's not like we can get shovels, but lay him out as best you can, cover him in stones. Do what you can. He fought trying to protect the Captain, he should be put to rest was well as we can. Laffy-” He busied himself groping for his coin purse. Dragging it from about his neck where it hung on a leather thong, he noted how light it was, there was next to nothing in it. “Benny, we need something to God damn drink. See what you can get with this.” He handed across his entire wealth, amounting to a hand full of tiny coins. Lafitte nodded and made toward the door, but was jerked to a stop when a hand lashed out and grabbed his wrist. “Wine. And, brandy” a rough voice ordered, and when Winchester looked, Novak was holding out his fist with his own purse in it. Winchester didn't even bother to warn the Private not to steal the remaining money. He trusted Benny, and in this situation, he knew he wouldn't be let down.

 

“Come on Sir.” He muttered and dragged the Captain out of the door leading to the well in the communal courtyard. He snagged the bucket and rags that Novak had used to clean up his brother as he walked past. Despite the man's interaction with Laffy, the man appeared to have slipped back in to his daze, his face was still white, lips blanched and pulled tightly. His hands were shaking, his eyes staring.

 

In the courtyard, full of weeds and parched looking trees, his Captain sat on the edge of the well still glaring at nothing. Winchester dropped the bucket in to the water and heaved on the rope to bring it back up full. He swilled the rags in the water then turned to Novak studying the man's face. His jaw was tense, a frown carving up his forehead, his hand clenched about the hilt of his sword, back rigid. The wound on his temple was still drizzling blood down his face, and he was splattered in Crowley's blood and brain.

 

“Let's clean you up Sir.” He warned, before moving to unbuckle the cross belt. Novak started when his fingers touched him, but didn't react other wise. Winchester concentrated on undoing each brass button on the man's jacket and sliding it gently over the man's shoulders. Just as he had his Captain's arms free from the heavy red coat, Laffy ducked in to the yard. He handed over a small vessel of brandy, a much larger one of wine and Novak's still heavy money purse. Winchester just nodded his thanks to the other man before dismissing him with a jerk of his head. The men could drink, but not get drunk. It was still essentially day break, they needed to calm down, re-group and mourn. He trusted them to keep them selves in order until the Captain was able to fight once again for his name, reputation, honour. And, for his men.

 

He tried hard, while he was unbuttoning the unresponsive man's cotton shirt, stained from battle and sleep, not to remember the previous night. Moon lit and bare chested. Strong and solid. He had wanted to kiss the man. _Man._ But, he couldn't help the desire that had rushed through him then. The acerbic and stoic man, with strong jaw and penetrating glare, utterly self assured, had been worried and so grateful when he had handed him his sword. And, now, he was broken. A shell of a man, and Dean wanted to kiss him, and hold him, and tell him it was all right. He couldn't have helped Corbett's death, and his revenge had been absolute. Winchester had never witnessed such a show of destruction at the hands of one man. The look on Nova- _Castiel's_ face; Dean would never forget the mix of tragic loss, derision, fury and rage.

 

He slipped the Captain's shirt from his arms, leaving it tucked in his trousers about his waist. He wrung out the rag and started dabbing at the man's face, the dried on blood and gore more stubborn to shift without using force. It was only when he swiped the cloth underneath the wound on Novak's head the he realised the man was no longer catatonic. The man winced and hissed in a breath between his teeth, eyes flinching closed from where they had been studying his own face close up.

 

“You back with us then Sir?” He asked, voice low, still hovering close to his Captain's face, bloody cloth in hand. “I think so. Sorry. I-” He heaved a sigh, letting Winchester continue to gently dab dried brain off his neck. “I never thought having the mens' respect- Your respect, Dean, would mean so much to me. And then, Corbett-” He looked up at the brightening sky, grey clouds lightly scudding across the void. Winchester noted that his eyes were sheened with unshed tears, the blue diminished by the depth of the sky, or the depth of his anguish, he couldn't tell.

 

“Then, Corbett was killed and I didn't _want_ to stop myself from killing Crowley. He killed one of _my_ men. He deserved more. I wanted to destroy him utterly, leave nothing behind. But-” Winchester eyed him silently, waiting. “But, I'm not that man. I couldn't.” He looked dejected. Winchester sighed. “Come on Sir, you're cleaned up now. There's that blanket in your billet you can get dry with. I have wine _and_ brandy. We can drink to Corbett. There's bread in there too, Sir. You need to eat. Then, we need to plan, Sir.” Novak eyed him balefully, but moved nonetheless, grabbing his coat and cross belt. He was shivering in the cool air of the shaded courtyard, his nipples pebbled with cold. Winchester looked up at the sky, willing away that thought.

 

Inside and upstairs, Novak wrapped the horse blanket about himself hiding his strong back from Winchester's gaze. “Why aren't you angry at me? Why don't the men hate me?” He suddenly snapped, turning on his booted heel, glare intense and unwavering.

 

Winchester frowned not understanding. “Why would we be angry?” Novak looked like he had been wounded all over again. “Because I got your friend killed. On my stupid personal _vendetta_. You should be furious with me, disgusted. I can't even keep five men alive for a few days away from battle! How can you expect me to lead you again?” He was almost spitting with his self hatred. Winchester could see Novak's eyes, drowning in failure and revulsion. “Why couldn't I avenge Corbett properly? He was just a boy. One blow and his killer dies. That's not revenge. But I couldn't make him hurt more, I couldn't torture him. I just caved his skull in. How- Why did- What-” “Good.” Winchester cut across Novak's increasingly uneven breathing, his babbling, with an authoritative tone he had not yet used with the Captain.

 

He needed to shock Novak out of his self pity, of blaming him self for getting Corbett killed, for leading them on this unsanctioned mission, for not flaying Crowley alive, for what ever. The man needed to know what loyalty looked like, and it wasn't sycophantic adoration and nor was it blame.

 

He pushed two hands against Novak's blanket covered chest; hard, forceful, until the man stumbled backwards. Novak's eyes went wide, disbelief evident. He pushed him again, forcing the Captain back further, who dropped the blanket in order to swing his arms out to keep his balance. “What are you-” “Be quiet.” He replied. “Sir.” One more hard shove and Novak hit the stone wall behind him with a grunt. His expression had turned furious. “They're _my_ fucking men now Sergeant. It's entirely _my_ fault that I got one of them killed playing stupid fucking mind games with my _enemy._ ” He laughed at himself, a sick sound between his laboured breaths. Winchester pushed forward, butting Novak back into the wall again, his forearm pressing against the man's chest, holding him forcefully against the stones. His weight against the Captain's chest forcing wheezing breaths between the man's angry sentences. “You're not the one they look to. I'm their God damned officer for Christ's sake. _I_ failed them. Me.”

 

Winchester laughed. A hollow and humourless thing in the strained air between them. Typical fucking officer. All arrogance and hauteur. “You're not the only one who matters, Sir. You're not the only one they'll- _we_ will fight for. They fight for each other, for me, for Corbett. Yes. You got Corbett killed, and yes it was your _pride_ that did it. This piece of shit mission to make a name for yourself. You've put yourself and us at risk, and Corbett's dead as a result. But you're not the first officer, NCO, nor even a fucking Private to have gotten someone else killed!” He sagged slightly, breathing heavily. He hadn't meant to fight the God damned Captain, he had wanted to reassure the man.

 

He watched as Novak's face, a mere few inches from his own, screwed up in hurt fury. “Fuck you you worthless piece of crap. These men are my responsibility, and my “pride” is all I fucking have. I have to fight for it. I have to have ambition. You wouldn't understand. You don't have an ounce of aspiration past managing to wake up the next day to shit, eat, drink, fuck and fight.” Novak hissed, rage evident in every nuance of voice and expression, straining against Winchester's restraining arm.

Winchester remembered the man's face, just as the swung his blade, delivering the killing blow to Crowley. He really ought to be more in fear for his life, rather than exploding at this man, his commanding officer. But- “The Fuck do you know about it? I'm the reason half the fucking Company get up any given day. I help them see that there's something left to live and fight for, that the bottom of the rum measure isn't the only thing in life. That marching for two months in knee deep snow isn't the end of days, that the blistering sun in summer won't kill them. I make sure they wake up and want to fight for their fucking king and fucking country. I make sure most of them wake up _at all_. I keep them alive on the battle field more than any privileged officer ever has, they fight for me and each other and we keep each other alive.” He snarled in to the Captain's face. He was furious now. Couldn't the stuck up bastard understand?

 

Without even thinking, he pulled back his arm and threw a solid punch at Novak's face. It connected with the man's cheek bone thumping his head back against the jagged stone wall hard, a sick, dull sound filling the room with sudden silence. The man's face was slack, grey. His eyes rolled back. Body body slumped against Winchester's arm.

 

He stared agape. What had he done? What the fuck had he done? One second. Five seconds. Fifteen seconds and still Winchester stood holding the man up against the wall, frozen.

 

Then the Captain's eyes fluttered slowly rolling back, their blue cold and empty, and he smiled. A tiny, malicious thing. “What do you want Dean? To hit me again? Because I'm a privileged officer? Because I was born in to wealth? And family? And I don't understand how tough it is for you?” He was almost simpering, his voice dripping derision. “Or because I chose to throw it all away? Live off a charitable pittance to stop _me_ dragging the family name in to the mud with lack of funds. Never mind the shit they do daily. Are you jealous Dean?” He snickered, wincing as his head touched the wall again. Winchester could see a smear of blood, red on the stone, his fury gone in an instant. “Because, _Dean,_ I'm fucking jealous of you. Your freedom. The loyalty you garner. The love the men have for you. The love your brother has for you. You're not tied to a family built from slaving and sugar. And you didn't run away.” He huffed a laugh again, a glazed look in his eyes as they rolled up in to his head again.

 

Winchester stood still for a moment, still pinning his Captain against the wall. His Captain who he hit so hard that his cheekbone was already raised and red, his eye puffing up and a bloody mess on the back of his head. He had wanted to reassure this man that no one blamed him for the death of Corbett. He'd ended up with a confession of the man's envy. _For him_. And, for all his accusations of pride and privilege, Novak was one of the bravest, most honest and genuinely human officers he had come across. He respected him. And would fight for him. And, would willingly die for him.

 

He took a breath, meaning to say something- anything. To bring Castiel back to him with apologies and honesty. Instead he leaned forward those two inches and brushed his lips against his Captain's.

 

Novak's eyes rolled back down, and focused directly and unwaveringly on Dean's wide open eyes. Suddenly he realised what he'd done. He felt his eyes widen further in terror that not only was he going to be beaten to a pulp for punching his Captain in the face but for daring to kiss him. It was _wrong_ after all. _Unnatural_. Men were stabbed in the night for less. Much less.

 

Novak didn't react aside from continuing to stare at him, a slight frown on his bruised face.

 

Winchester drew away slightly, removing his weight from Novak's chest, fear spreading, wondering if he ran, how far he would get.

 

_Then_ Novak moved.

 

Winchester let out a tiny yelp of surprise followed by a guttural grunt as his back hit the wall, Novak having spun them about. He found himself pressed against the wall, Novak's forearm on his chest now, pinning _him_ to the wall. He wanted to apologise, to beg for forgiveness, to promise never to do such a terrible thing again, that he didn't know what came over him. But, he couldn’t. Novak's arm was drawing back, hand clenched in a fist, eyes blank and terrifying.

 

Winchester screwed up his eyes and waited for Novak's fist to connect.

 

But the strike never came.

 

The Captain's raised hand cupped Dean's cheek, his thumb gently swiping across his cheekbone. Winchester didn't know what to do. His chest was heaving in fear and he _want_ _ed._ His eyes were prickling, they were so wide, trying to take it all in.

 

Novak's lips touched his. Not the tickling brush Dean had initiated, but firm, hard and demanding. Dean's eyes were still wide open. He wasn't reacting at all, too surprised. Castiel's eyes were shut, a deep purple already beginning to tinge his left cheek where his fist had connected, and a light frown of concentration touching his brow. Seeing that, Dean heard a whining groan of want fill the silent air, it took him a moment to recognise that it was coming from within himself. Without thinking any further at all, he pushed forward, bruising Castiel's plush lips with his own. His tongue impatiently probed forward trying to gain entry to the other man's warm, soft and perfect mouth. Castiel groaned, deep and filthy. With almost infinite slowness the Captain's arm across Dean's chest released. Dean felt his hand slide cautiously about him, until he was embraced completely in the man's hold, pulled flush against the other man's body. Their tongue's met, twining around each other. Dean closed his eyes.

 

With darkness came confidence, and he slid one arm around the Captain's back to hold him fast, the other drifted low to grasp at Castiel's firm behind. With Castiel's gasp of surprise came another needy whine from Dean.

 

They broke apart after seconds or maybe hours, panting. Identical looks of surprise, shock, lust, want and slight fear on their faces as their eyes locked fast and held, screaming every emotion they felt at each other silently, words entirely superfluous.


	20. Chapter 20

Novak was reeling. Too many emotions and thoughts running through his head at the speed of a cavalry charge. Too fast to process. Dean had kissed him. Not to mention everything else that happened before. Getting punched, knocked out briefly, arguing with the Sergeant, being partially stripped and washed, murdering Crowley in the most brutal fashion, wishing he'd done more. Getting Corbett killed. But Dean had kissed him. Kissed him. And that was illegal, and they could both be hanged. Not to mention that he was his commanding officer, far above him in rank, wealth and social status. And- He had kissed back.

But then he pulled his eyes from Dean's. The man's face was hard bitten, it could be cruel, always strong, but it had been so soft and full of care when he had been gently wiping away the splattered blood from his face, when he had come back to himself and watched the man's green and gold eyes dart across his own face, his freckles golden in the early sun. The previous night when he had returned with his sword, safe and whole, he had found him self relieved to the point of his knees almost buckling underneath him, he had wanted to kiss Dean then, he'd denied it to himself at the time but he had reached out and had wanted to draw the Sergeant toward him. The morning that Winchester had surprised him awake, announcing the arrival of the men, he had never been woken more unpleasantly by a more pleasant sight. 

It occurred to him then that whilst Dean clearly enjoyed female company, as evidenced by their first proper meeting, he himself had never really been as desirous of touching another fellow human as he was now. He had noticed pretty women, but Dean, since that first moment, irritation and vexation aside, had attracted and held his attention. 

What did that even mean?

He'd already kissed a look of 'fight or flight' from Dean's face. He trusted this man with his life on the battle field. Maybe he could trust him with his life here, too.

He pushed forward, once again pinning Dean against the wall, but with more care, less brutality, his hands lightly encasing the other man's upper arms. Dean went easily, a stunned look on his face. The Sergeant, as if in a daze, lifted a hand and lightly pressed his fingertips against his collar bone, feathering down gently, with barely there touches, hesitant, unsure. Castiel felt the touch skim down his chest, graze gently over a nipple before moving on down his stomach, the other hand joining in matching strokes either side of his torso.

His breath stuttered in his chest, eyes intent on Dean's. Dean's eyes were fastened to where his hands ghosted over every inch of skin available, dipping in to tickle slightly at his navel before coming to a stop at the waist of his trousers. 

With slow jerky movements and shallow breath Castiel managed to get his hands to the buckle of Dean's cross belt. Shaking slightly as both of Dean's thumbs came up to circle his nipples in tandem, he managed to undo the cumbersome belts. His hands flew to Dean's neck with more urgency, fumbling the buttons from their holes. Dean made it a more difficult task by dropping his head to kiss slowly and wetly where his collar bone met his neck. He shivered, came unstuck, couldn't make his hands work, until his latent anger rushed him, Dean was being infuriating on purpose. He grunted in annoyance, and pushed Dean back into the wall again. A look of wounded fear flowed across Dean's features. It hurt him. Shit, he thought. Maybe he wasn't attempting to try his patience after all. Instead of apologising, he leant forward and pressed a hard kiss against Dean's lips, his hands encasing his face. He craned his neck and pressed a kiss to the man's forehead, then another deeply against his mouth. But, then he pulled away, pushing Dean back by his shoulders, gently this time, before quickly and diligently forcing his fingers to make work of the man's uniform coat.

He finally pulled the damned jacket off the man, leaving him in an unwashed shirt, gaping open at the neck. He gasped quietly at the tiny space of pale skin on show and instantly ducked his head forward to lave a kiss just above the Sergeant's heart. Dean let out a low whimper and seemed to be unable to stop himself from capturing Castiel's lips with his own again, tongue lapping deeply, twisting and writhing against his own. He sighed in to the kiss as he pulled Dean's shirt from his trousers and pulled it up above his head leaving his scarred skin, dusky nipples and light brown hair available to drink in. He felt intoxicated with it, and slid his hands across every inch he could touch, all the while plundering Dean's mouth, and having him plunder his in return.

His hands roamed Dean's torso until they hit his fall-front trousers. His fingers skimmed the buttons and the hardness that lay between them. He gasped a little at the evidence of Dean's arousal. Castiel was already hard, but knowing Dean was too sent a wave of lust and want through him, straight to his cock. “Jesus Ca-” the Sergeant began, swallowing heavily. “Cas. Just get the damned things off me.” Dean's hands were scrabbling at his own waist whilst he kicked off his black calf high boots. The man was panting in to his mouth. Castiel managed to get his fingers to cooperate, and opened up Dean's trousers, falling to his knees as he pulled them down. He knelt back up, pressing a kiss to Dean's navel as he pulled the Sergeant's drawers from his hips leaving the man entirely exposed.

He had seen men naked before, a slew of brothers and cousins, and an army surrounding him. But seeing Dean's thick, heavy and flushed dick proudly erect scant inches from his face sent another tidal wave of lust through him. He closed his eyes, letting his other senses be bolstered by the lack of vision. He could hear Dean's short sharp pants above him. Could smell his scent, gunpowder, sweat, earthy dust, rum and gun oil. He swayed forward mouthing at the coarse hair mounding at the base of the man's cock. He could feel the heat radiating from Dean. He couldn't stop now even if he wanted to. He opened his eyes and trailed them upward, taking in every inch of Dean, before focusing on the man's mossy green surrounded pupils. Dean was looking down, watching, open mouthed, flushed, surprised and lustful. 

In the few moments they spent staring in to each other's eyes, Castiel's thoughts flew back to his short time in London while he had been purchasing his commission. Waiting on Horse Guards was an unending tedium, and he had spent the days wondering the city, and the evenings in theatres and coffee houses. When he was still under his family's rule he had been sheltered. A few afternoons spent drinking tea with pretty girls in sunlit rooms had been his whole experience of the fairer sex. Once in London, he had seen the lewd women walking the streets and standing on street corners of the seedier areas of the metropolis. 

Up until this day Castiel had not given much thought to his inexperience. At home it had been expected he would marry, and all that would follow. Since fleeing to England and the army, he had been intensely focused on fighting. Some chaste kisses with local girls at home, one impassioned kiss, at least on her side, with one Miss MacAndrew, and one walk through a London brothel after too much wine, receiving fellatio before he realised his lack of interest and lack of arousal, and left. It gave him little to work with.

And yet, here he found himself, his mouth watering with the thought of replicating that action on this man. This man whom it was considered unnatural to find attractive, yet the man was magnetic, With whom wanting anything more was illegal, a death sentence. But he did want it, desperately.

Castiel pulled back, letting Dean's openly wanting expression reassure him. He let his eyes drift back down to the sight before him, and he felt a hot rush of arousal flow through him, prickling at his spine, clenching his toes, and pulsing in his cock. Without any more hesitation he leant back in and licked a trail of saliva along Dean's full hard length. As his lips met the bruise coloured head, he slipped his tongue out to dart over the leaking slit. The taste of the liquid collecting there exploded across his tongue and he let loose a deep groan of satisfaction; the sensation unexpected and so very arousing. 

Dean's head lolled back on his shoulders and he let out a whimper. His hands circled Castiel's head, running through his hair. Castiel let Dean's touch fortify him, he took a breath and ducked down, opening his lips to let Dean's length slide along his tongue. He took in as much as possible, before swirling his tongue around and about as he rose back up, sucking just hard enough to elicit another deep moan from Dean.

Castiel was about to sink back down, impaling his mouth on Dean's cock again when the man pushed him away with hands, shaking ever so slightly, still wrapped in his hair. “Dean?” He looked up and questioned, his voice deeper, rougher. The Sergeant just shook his head, and bit his lip as he slowly sunk to his knees to join Castiel on the floor. “You-” Dean whispered as he inched forward, one hand resting gently on Castiel's shoulder. “You're-” He pushed the Captain back and down, forcing him to kick his legs out and prop himself up on his elbows behind him as Dean crawled over him. “You're so- Fuck. You need to be naked for starters,” the man's face was flushed with desire until a sly look and an even slyer grin spread across his features, “Sir” he finished his sentence. Novak couldn't contain the groan, half arousal and half exasperation that Dean's wording warranted. 

The Sergeant's hands flew to his trousers, ripping away the sash and shirt, unbuttoning them quickly and running his firm grip along Castiel's hard length through his drawers. “Shit-” Castiel panted out at the sensation, then gasped as Dean's hand left him and he watched Dean tug off his boots and pull the rest of his clothing down and off and across the room. Dean hovered above him, his eyes darting all over; from the gash on his forehead and the bruise pounding on his cheek that Dean had inflicted only minutes before, to his chest, hips, straining cock, thighs and back up again. The man looked ruined, he was biting his lip, breath harsh. 

Novak noticed a flicker of indecision on his face as the sun broke over the buildings beyond the window and streamed in, drenching the man in golden light. “Dean? I know it's-” He bit off his sentence, and changed direction. “I want you.” He didn't want Dean to leave him now, hard, naked, wanting. Dean was beautiful, faithful, loyal, strong and gentle, and he wanted him, whether it was wrong or illegal. He wanted the Sergeant to want him, this, too. He pushed up a little more and gently brushed his lips against Dean's bitten ones. Dean slowly, careful not to disconnect their mouths, sat back on his haunches, pulling Castiel with him. Castiel manoeuvred himself up, then pushed Dean down, down until he was the one hovering over this unceasingly endearing and infuriating man.

He leant down and kissed Dean on the mouth again, hard and filthy, sucking his tongue, licking as far in as he could, making Dean writhe a little beneath him as he sat straddled across his thighs. He ran his hands from his chest, swiping over his erect nipples, one moved straight down his side to kneed at the man's thighs, the other meandered across his belly, playing with the trail of hair leading unerringly to Dean's swollen member. He fisted around the man's cock, pumping gently once, twice, still keeping his mouth fastened on Dean's, swallowing his every groan, whine and whimper. 

He crawled up Dean's body a little, positioning him self over the Sergeants twitching cock. Dean's eyes were wide as he, with no little trepidation, spat on his hand and swiped Dean's length once, twice before gripping him firmly and lowering himself until the purpled tip of Dean's dick was flush with his hole. He forced himself to relax, swiping the head, slick with ejaculate and saliva against himself again and again. Dean was bucking in tiny movements under him, panting hard and fast, eyes clenched shut, mouth agape, unable to return Castiel's kisses. The man's hands were scrabbling at his thighs, his arse, looking for purchase. 

He sat up more, looking down at Dean's sculpted face, in this moment, soft and slack with need and desire, a frown of want crinkling his forehead, his eyes still squeezed closed, small quiet breathless moans leaving his beautiful mouth.

He pushed himself down. There was some burning discomfort, and he winced, grimacing slightly, but mostly he was overwhelmed with the pressure, the fullness, the satisfaction of joining with Sergeant Dean Winchester in a way that was everything pleasurable and beautiful, not wrong, nor sick. 

Dean's eyes flew open, wide with ecstasy, just black rimmed with green. He continued to stare in to the man's glazed gaze until he was sitting fully seated with Dean inside of him, full and boiling with pleasure. His own breathing was quick, erratic, small hiccoughing gasps, pants and quiet moans. “Dean, you're- Is this-” Dean suddenly seemed to come back to himself, eyes widening impossibly further, almost a look of anger suffusing his features. “Cas. Move!” He ordered forcefully. And, with relief surging through him, Castiel did. Lifting himself up slowly, hole clenching and unclenching around Dean's solid erection, a pleased moan and a glorious smile spread across the man's face. Dean bucked up under him as he slid back down and he let out an involuntary grunt followed by a moan of pure pleasure at the dragging pressure.

They quickly found themselves in a rhythm, like the pounding feet of a marching army on dusty roads, only this was the pounding of Castiel grinding down hard, being speared by Dean, having him push back up and in to him with every thrust. One of Dean's hands was squeezing at this thigh, the other caressing his back, sometimes threading through his sweaty hair, swiping it out of his eyes. His own hands were pressed in to the uneven floor boards either side of Dean's head. He was gazing down, watching every nuance of pleasure and joy flit across Dean's face as he rocked and slid on him, the pace slow, long deep thrusts pulling quiet gasps and moans from each of them. 

He leaned down and pressed another kiss to Dean's mouth, slow, almost chaste.

When he leant back up, he redoubled his efforts, pounding down against Dean, his thickness, his hardness filling him at every stoke. The man beneath him threw his head back, grunting and moaning on every spit slick slide inside of him. 

Castiel couldn't resist. He slowed again, and threw himself down to lick and kiss and suck at Dean's neck, careful to leave no mark, almost slipping off Dean entirely in the process. Dean's groan of frustrated desire ripped through Castiel, engorging his neglected cock even further, twitching with every undulation of Dean's hips.

With his change of angle and his slow deliberate movement, Castiel suddenly felt a new sensation over come him, filling him from the inside out with heat and tension and unbelievable pleasure. He yelled out, the noise aborted quickly and muffled in to Dean's mouth. Dean moved back, as much as he could against the hard floor and questioned Castiel's sudden stillness silently. “Fuck, Dean! Jesus, So fucking good. Christ!” He whispered and Dean's face registered curiosity then wickedness as he slowly ground upwards filling Castiel again, pressing what ever had felt so good inside of him. He let out another an aborted yell, muffled against Dean's neck this time, followed by a whimpering sob of pure pleasure. 

Again, and again Dean pounded upward in to him causing stabs of obscene pleasure to rip through him until he couldn't take it any longer. He couldn't even get the words out, he threw his head back, a silent scream pouring through him as he came, pumping load after load of thick white semen across Dean's stomach, chest and neck, the heat pounding through his spine in time with his rapid heart. 

“Cas!” He heard hissed out in Dean's wrecked and beautiful voice as he felt the man's back arch and cock pulse inside of him repeatedly, his hole clenching in response. They were still moving, Dean's release slicking the way, easing the over sensitivity of his body until it was too much, both of them twitching with lightening-fire pain-pleasure. He slumped down on to Dean's chest, his face nestled against the man's neck, breath heaving out of him, stunned with the overwhelming stimulation running through his entire body. 

Dean's warm arms came up and circled his back holding him strong and steady as the Sergeant's heart frantically beat in time with his own.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm just gonna walk away nonchalantly, whistling.


	21. Chapter 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ugh... Feelings.

Novak rolled off his Sergeant and landed on the floor with a grunt. There was a sticky mess of his release smeared across both of them, and he could feel the hot mess of Dean's own release sliding down between his thighs. He screwed his face up in discomfort, but didn't move; not sure that he wanted to, nor if he was able.

  


“Fuck Cas.” Dean flopped his head to face Castiel, a glazed, soft and bemused grin spread on his face. “That was...” Castiel felt his face split in a rare grin, mirroring Dean's. Dean's eyes lit up at the sight. “I agree.” He found him self responding finally, a deep sigh of contentment rumbling through his chest at leaving Dean speechless. 

  


“I'll make you a deal.” Dean suddenly started. Novak's frown was instantaneous, dread and fear curling in his belly, but Dean's face was still relaxed, lazy. “If you let me borrow your great-coat, I'll grab that rag from the well so we can clean up, if you go and get the wine and the rum from downstairs.” His insecurities evaporated and he grinned again, pushing himself up off the floor. “I agree.” He repeated, and slung his great coat across the room toward Dean's still prone and naked body. He caught himself watching the other man's beautiful form, for no other description worked, a soft smile gracing his lips as the man pushed himself up off the floor. Dean caught his gaze and sent him a half smile and a huff of silent laughter before swinging the coat about himself, clearly trying not to stain the inside with the sticky mess smeared across his torso.

  


-

  


Back in the privacy of the tumble down room, the two men sat side by side leaning against the blood stained wall, passing the wine skin b e tween them taking small sips  in between even smaller sips of the rum and chewing on hunks of dry bread. “Sorry, I- er, y'know, hit you.” Novak glanced at Dean,  gauging. “I'll overlook the  disciplinary this once Sergeant.” Winchester snorted and handed him the rum.  Novak's head hurt, from the sword cut, Dean's fist and where his head had rebounded on the wall behind  him , the sickly sour wine was doing nothing to abate the pain.

 

After they had cleaned up and dressed, leaving their jackets off, they had both gone to check on their men. Lafitte had a skin of wine to himself and was keeping watch in the door way, the others were dozing or sipping at their wine, slumped about the room, tired and dejected. They'd nodded to the men, no one acting any different to how they should in such a situation, despite the extra bruises adorning his cheek bone. Novak had felt a rush of relief that his time spent with Dean had seemingly gone unnoticed and that the men trusted but their Captain and Sergeant to work through their seeming argument without interruption. He had indicated that they would take a couple of hours to rest, then they needed to plan their next move. He had received grunts in return, which was good enough for him. He had made a point of calling the Sergeant back to his quarters with a “Winchester, strategies?” And a jerk of his head, indicating he should follow him.

  


Captain and Sergeant alone again, he was now nursing the tender wound on the back of his head. “Remind me not to piss you off again though Sergeant.” He muttered. “Remind me not to punch my commanding officer again, Captain.” Dean replied archly and Novak hummed in response. “I assume fucking my way out of trouble isn't a reasonable course of action to avoid punishment with all of my officers?” Novak released a surprised snort, and he gently whacked the back of his hand against Dean's bent leg. “You would be correct.” From his position, knees drawn up and head lowered between them, forehead resting on one forearm slung across his knees, he couldn't see much of the other man, but he felt his warm palm rest on the back of his neck and caress the short hair at the base of his skull.

  


“So, what are we going to do?” Dean asked a hint of a sigh in his voice, his hand still warming the nape of his neck. He huffed out a quiet laugh. “About this? Us? Or about “my bloody vendetta”?” Dean snorted a laugh. Everything was so quiet and calm, Dean's warmth next to him, solid and reassuring. “I meant the mission Cas, but we can talk about this. About _us._ ” He replied a slight strain sounding in the last two words.

  


“I don't know Dean.” Novak said, deciding to answer the first part of the question initially. His thoughts flickered briefly to Sam, and he was glad Dean hadn't asked him about his whereabouts yet. “We don't know where Milton is now. He won't be in his billet any longer. Our informant is dead, thanks to me.” Dean's hand tightened where it rested against Novak's skin, an involuntary warning not to blame himself any further. “And, I suspect that Adler has pushed for my arrest as my blade has been stolen from his rooms.” He dared a quick glance at Dean, leaning against the wall beside him. The man was wearing a half smile, cocky and proud at the achievement of that ridiculous escapade.

  


He saw hesitation flicker on to Dean's face in that moment, worry and uncertainty. “And us?” He asked his voice quiet, as if insurmountable odds with an enemy was no problem to him, but sex between himself and his superior, and definitely male officer was. “Us? I-” He bit his lip wondering how to phrase what he wanted to say, even while knowing without a doubt that it was what he wanted, had known since Dean first kissed him. Dean's face was stricken as he hesitated. “I am… of the opinion… that I would like for there to be an us?” He got out haltingly, almost questioning at the end. “What we did, Dean. It was-” He laughed at the memory, “the best I've ever felt. I've not, um, done that before.” he finished a little ruefully. Dean's eyes went wide. “Wait, with a man? Or, at all?” Novak lowered his eyes. To a man like Dean it would seem strange. “At all.” Dean's only response was a slightly surprised noise in his throat. “I understand the risks. I understand if you don't want to- to pursue this. And if you do-” He broke off, unable to continue with Dean's total silence and lack of response. He was a hunk of stone, and he was bleeding his heart out on to it.

  


“And- If I do?” Winchester continued in a whisper, fear and excitement and lust and anxiety written all over his face. Novak took a deep breath, worried any noise or movement might scare Dean away. “If you do- we would have to be discreet. No one can know. Or we both face a hanging, you know what British laws are like. We'd probably be lynched by the men before the authorities got to us. But, you drive me to distraction Dean, you're insufferable and irritating and a cocky bastard, but God damn, you're loyal and honest, brave and fucking irresistible. I didn't know I could be attracted to anyone before I met you.” He sat up and back, twisting slightly to face Dean, hoping to God that Dean would take the risk, would want to spend time with him again, would want to sleep with him again, would smile at him and pant in to him and kiss him again, and again, and again.

  


Dean smirked, but the expression fell away swiftly to one of open awe and rueful amusement “You are proud and stubborn and stoic and stuck up and one of the best men I have ever met, Cas. You kiss like a fucking whore and I've never been made to feel so good, nor so cared for. I want to kiss you again. I don't even want to keep this hidden- But, I want- so long as I can hold you again. So I will, you know I will.” And with that Dean leant forward and pressed his lips against Castiel's, tasting sweetly of wine and rum and Castiel, but mostly of _Dean._

  


-

  


After mere seconds Castiel pulled away, leaving Winchester feeling hallow, wounded. He'd just pledged, albeit with broken words, to attempt a relationship with a _man_ within the fucking army and across the officer/commoner divide, and now he was pulling away after just a few moments. He hadn't noticed Novak's hand moving up to rest against his neck, but he felt it the instant it tightened, hard, against him. Through his lust and want he finally took in Novak's face, his expression. It was not one of anger, or disgust, or mockery, or any of the other things he had considered, it was one of fear, surprise, and calculating assessment.

  


“Cas, what-?” Novak just shh'd him, getting up silently and sidling to the window. Winchester could hear it now, what had obviously spooked the Captain. Footfalls, out of time and failing to be quiet enough. Whispered oaths and the clanking on insufficiently muffled weaponry.

  


The thump of hurried footsteps hitting the creaking staircase ruined the still atmosphere as Lafitte barged in, about to alert the Captain of the imminent arrival of a potential enemy.

  


The Captain held up his arm to silence Laffy, already knowing what he was to report. Winchester's eyes met Lafitte's. He nodded, indicating that the man should stay with them for now. He prayed that the room didn't give himself and Castiel away, the air probably smelt more of stale wine and rum than of come and sweat, but he couldn't tell. He trusted Lafitte to be discreet nevertheless.

  


Novak was still only in trousers, boots and his shirt, his black cotton stock tied loosely about his throat. He stood flush against the wall, all but out of sight of the street, but clearly, by his expression, able to see the intruders.

  


The noises stopped. There was the sound of a throat clearing before Milton's arrogant voice sounded in the echoing, narrow alley below.

  


“Novak. Cousin! I know you're in there. You are not the only person capable of following a lead through this misbegotten city. You were not as careful as you thought.” A dramatic sigh sounded from below in the alley way. “I know you are watching Cassie. As you can see, you are out numbered. Your pitiful troupe of half starved red coats will not withstand my men. _Guer_ _r_ _illos_ and highway men, mostly. Trusted brutes. They aren't bound by your code, nor anyone's as far as I have discovered so far.” A small chuckle sounded this time. “You are surrounded, all escape routes covered. You have two minutes to give your self up, or be given up by your men. I will kill you quickly Castiel. Humanely. If you chose to stay and hide or fight, you will _all_ die. Two minutes, gentlemen, two minutes.”

  


His Captain's composure didn't slip, although he saw a strange combination of worry, fear and hope cross the man's features. Winchester watched as Novak slung his jacket on, quickly tying the sash and buckling the cross belt before adjusting his sword for comfort, and checking the blade hiding beneath the sash about his waist. He didn't even send a second glance behind him when he left the room knowing Dean and Laffy would follow.

  


The Sergeant and Private caught up with their Captain in the other hovel, Talbot and St. John fully alert and dressed, wine skins discarded and weapons in hand. “Men.” Novak began, talking in fast hushed tones. “You were never under orders on this mission, I cannot ask you to die for me like this, like rats in a barrel. You are free to go if you wish. I will go out-”

  


Winchester scowled. “Like hell you will. Sir.” He added the 'Sir' remembering his place at the last minute. “You may not be ordering them to do anything, but I am.” He raised his voice slightly before addressing the others. “Boys; if you send the Captain out there I will skin you alive. You hear me?” The men grinned, big and wide up at their Sergeant. “We got you, Captain.” Laffite piped up. “And; Sir.” Winchester continued as if there had been no interruption. “If you go out there and get killed, I will hunt you down and kill you all over again, so help me.” He noted a ghost of a smile on his Captain's face.

  


“Thank you. All of you.” Novak said, stoic as ever, but with tiny twitch to the corner of his mouth. “Now, we can't escape, the courtyard walls are un-scaleable, too high. They're all the way along the street, about fifteen of them, so we can't even go through a different building via the yard. We can't shoot Milton. I need him alive, boys, or I don't get exonerated.” They lapsed in to silence, silently counting down the seconds until Milton would order his men to kill them all.

  


“Wait. Where's Sammy? I thought he was upstairs here?” He shoots a curious look to Novak.

  


A piercing shriek filled the air from outside, and a wicked grin spread across Novak's face, evil enough to stop Lucifer himself dead in his tracks.


	22. Chapter 22

Private Samuel Winchester felt a twist of hatred pool in his gut watching the slender blond man offer his ultimatum. His hands were shaking where they rested on the hilt of the long knife shoved through his belt. He didn't know if it was the cravings or the nerves. 

In the stilted silence following the man's speech he looked about him. He didn't want to be here amongst the enemy. He was dressed back in his filthy clothes, with a cowled smock thrown over his head, just like the other thugs about him. He wanted to prove to the Captain that he was worth the effort and trust that he had put in him, and so he had done as asked.

He had watched his Captain, his brother and the other men walk away down the alley in the twilight to an unknown fate, and they had left him behind, all but Novak thinking him too sickly to fight. The minute they had been out of ear shot and eye line he had slipped back in to his wine, shit and vomit stained clothing and smeared filth on his skin. He had left the safety of their buildings, already wanting to drown himself back in the tepid haze of alcohol. On Novak's intelligence, he had to search out a specific inn though, he needed to do this to prove himself to his Captain, to thank him. And he needed to stay off the God forsaken drink. 

Inside the inn, that was seemingly known for it's unsavoury nature, he had sat with a group of men adorned with enough weaponry and scars to fill an entire winter of nights with stories. Guerrillos, Spanish who fought the little war up in the mountains, wore no uniform, and slit the throats of French in the night. There were highway men, thieves and bandits too. These men were for hire. After he had ordered a wine skin, and let the majority of it dribble down his chin, safely away from his mouth, he felt sufficiently accepted by the group of mismatched thugs to round up and ask some of his acquaintances from the brothel to join him. With in an hour or so he was back with 'friends'. Men who had agreed to infiltrate the group. 

All he had to do from then was hope that Novak's information was correct and that Milton would decide to use hired soldiers, and use this infamous inn. They just had to hope he picked this group of men, and pick him and his men.

He had, and he did.

And, now he was hiding in plain sight in a group of fifteen men, none of whom trusted each other, on the orders of a dandy in a dark green, well cut coat and grey breeches. Amongst the thugs were two of his men and himself. Three men against twelve, and Milton himself. Even including Novak, his brother and the rest of the men; the odds were not great.

With the tremors in his hands and the ringing in his ears, and nausea swirling in his gut he tried to keep an eye on his two men who were picked to fight along side him. He thought they were on board, he gave them enough money courtesy of Novak, they had no excuse not to be. But, they were untrained, had fought enough bar brawls, but didn't know how to wield their serrated knives. Novak had voiced the thought that it wouldn’t matter. The mere fact that they were there and fighting against the men around them, who were also untrained, should be sufficient to give their group an edge. To give them hope.

-

Novak had been nervous when he'd peered out the window in the upstairs room and seen a small hoard of anonymous men, some stocky, some average and some tall. He couldn't tell if his plan regarding Sam had been successful or not.

Down in the second building, with Winchester and the men, and the silence of the count down he believed that Sam had failed, or he had failed Sam. Then the pained scream of a wounded man had rent the still air and Castiel knew that this was his chance.

Grinning, he turned first to Dean, then faced his men, sliding his beautiful sword from the scabbard with a husky shriek of metal on metal. “Ready boys?” 

They ran out of the door way, Winchester dropping to a knee immediately to fire a shot, Talbot standing behind him to do the same. Sam and his men and thrown off the cowls and shown their red jackets, stolen from corpses around the city, ill fitting and left open, but a show of their colours nonetheless. St. John and Lafitte had run straight for the men in home spun and brown cloth with their bayonets held high, stabbing forward in quick efficient thrusts.

Novak headed straight for the man standing aghast amongst the throng and chaos. Plain silver steel sword held aloft and stationary, glinting in the sun.

“Barty” He growled out. “As you see I think neither I nor my men will accept your terms.” Milton looked nonplussed. Almost bored. “And what you will you do Cassie? Fight me? You know I was always the better swordsman.” 

Novak cocked his head, circling the other man. “Maybe. When we were boys. And, maybe when you tried to take fathers tobacco and sugar plantations. When you fought me and beat me. Maybe, Bart. But we still won. You remember? I was barely out of childhood; I'd already decided to leave before I got sent to help protect our fortune. You got to see almost my first and last battle fighting for my family. But now? I am no stranger to battle, Bartholomew Milton. No longer a scared seventeen year old. I am better than you. In every. Single. Way.”

“Some speech, little Cassie. But I notice you're circling, and you've gone and put the sun directly against your line of sight. So now you're blinded. And I can do this!” He yelled the last and lunged forward, sword out to pierce straight through Castiel's undefended left side. 

“Ah. Bart.” Novak hissed as he stepped in to Milton's reach, swerving about the blade and using the black lump of a shadow that Milton had become against the bright sun as a guide. “You always were over confidant.” It was true, he couldn't see properly, but then he ducked under Milton's arm, dancing back away from him, leaving Milton the one staring at the burning, glaring sky, and nursing a back handed slash across the back of his thigh from Novak's blade as he swept past.

Milton hissed in pain and swatted a hand to his leg to assess the damage, He came back with a hand smeared in blood. “You've ruined my trousers Castiel.”

Novak couldn't help but laugh out loud. “That's what you're worried about Milton? Really? Look about you. No one is going to come and save you.” Milton's haughty and supercilious look didn't change. “True, but nor is anyone going to come and save you from me either.”

He rolled his eyes, taking them from his target, not his best move, but he couldn't help it. He sighed, took a deep breath, “Be quiet Milton” and lunged, going for a disarming move. 

His plan was not to kill or even especially injure Milton. He needed him alive. He needed a confession from him. He had to keep the man fighting or talking long enough for the Sergeant or one of his Privates to come to his aid. To either distract Milton, so that he could tackle him to the ground, or that they would be able to do those honours for him. They needed to disarm him and secure him until he could send some one to rouse Singer. He did not intend to ruin the chances of his exoneration with needless pride and theatrics.

Milton managed to keep a hold of his sword, wrenching his arm around to avoid the quick stroke. Novak dove back in, leaving the man next to no time to recover. He remembered fighting Crowley, the ferocity of his killing blow and the dirty fighting he had utilised before hand. Using fists and feet was not only seen as ungentlemanly, but it was dangerous. It left you over balanced and undefended if used unwisely. Perhaps an ungentlemanly-like approach was what was required for such a piece of filth as Milton though.

He darted forward again, Milton dancing out of his way, limping only ever so slightly on his slashed leg. Novak sent a slashing blow toward Milton's left and undefended side, the man threw his sword arm across his body to parry and Novak threw a punch at the man's jaw with his left hand. Milton's face was almost comical, surprise evident splashed across his features. “Cassie- this is a duel, that is hardly sportsmanlike.” 

Novak laughed, the noise bubbling up from his gut. “No, Barty. This is a fight. One I intend to win.”

Suddenly Milton's eyes flashed wide in surprise, then a filthy look of smugness over took him. Milton was not looking at him though, he was looking past him, behind him. 'Shit' he though to himself, his men must not be holding off Milton's thugs as he had hoped. A rush of fear thrilled through him, not for himself, but for the fate of his men, for Dean. His lover. But sentiment must not get in the way, the women of the battalion watched their men go to war daily and don't scream and wail when they marched away, knowing full well they may not come back. One afternoon of, admittedly, breath taking love making does not give him the right to coddle the man and try to protect him from all harm. Winchester was a soldier first and foremost.

While these thoughts flew through his head he span, sword out ready to attack. Two men were racing toward him. He jabbed the blade instantly through the smaller man's leg. He thought, in the strangely detached way he sometimes did on the battle field, that he ought to kill the man outright to save him a slow death bleeding out through the artery in his leg. Before that concept had even become a fully conscious thought, he wrenched the blade from the falling body and slashed the sword through the neck of the much bigger man. That one crumpled to the floor making gabbling noises like a turkey and trying to stem the flow from his neck whilst his life bled away.

Continuing on his path, he completed his three hundred and sixty degree turn, bringing his gore covered blade up in a parry to block Milton's stabbing blow aimed at his previously undefended back. The blades met in a screeching clash, sparks sailing over them both.

He rolled his blade through the air, keeping Miltons' in a locked position, forcing his arm up and up. He just needed to step under his guard and knock the man to his feet. Loose your footing in battle, you are unlikely to ever get up again. 

A low keening noise filtered in to his battle hazed consciousness. Milton turned his head in the direction of the noise, eyes widening again, this time in fear. Milton didn't have time to lift his arm before a red and white streak of movement collided with his body, a pair of blood soaked arms wrapping about his waist and pulling him to the ground.

Novak's surprise was short lived. He had already disengaged his blade and raised it to swing when he noted Milton's distraction. He halted his swing when the soldier collided with Milton, even though he had intended to use the flat of his sword to avoid killing the man. Instead he switched his grip and lunged toward the now downed but alive body of Bartholomew Milton. He pointed the blood smeared, terrifyingly sharp point of his Angel Blade at the fluttering pulse in Milton's neck.

He couldn't even be bothered to talk to the man.

Sergeant Winchester rose from the floor quickly, avoiding being grabbed or used as hostage by the French spy. He brutally kicked Milton's sword from his hand causing the man to making an aborted movement toward it before clutching his now bruised wrist to his chest, eyes on the point of Novak's sword mere inches from his unprotected jugular.

Castiel's eyes remained focused on Milton, but he spoke to his Sergeant. “Butcher's bill?” He knew he sounded terse, but he hoped Winchester wouldn't take it amiss. “Sam got a cut to the leg somehow, but he'll survive. Laffy took a couple of slashes to his chest, but again they're not life threatening. I got cut on the arm but most of this is someone else’s.” He said indicating the blood smothering both his forearms. “One of our, er, helpers got killed. The other is fine. Talbot and St. John are guarding Milton's remaining men. We got a few of them, a few ran, and the rest are over there. I don't think he offered them enough money.”

Novak didn't realise he had been so concerned that he would get all his men killed. None of them were seriously hurt. None of them dead. He only had poor Corbett on his conscience. He felt a weight lift from his shoulders.

“Can you get all the men to guard this” he indicated Milton with distaste “and the other men, together. Send St. John to Singer. Tell him to explain to him that we've not only caught the man who framed me, but a man who has been passing the French secrets. I think he'll want to talk to Milton himself.” Then, lowering his voice so it wouldn't carry to the man eyeing him with loathing “Oh, better tell him not to mention that I may have killed the actual murderer. I believe Crowley did the actual deed that night. Milton, clearly, doesn't usually like to get his hands dirty. I'm not sure they'd look too favourably on that.”

“Yes Sir.” Winchester answered, humour in his voice and a wealth of emotions running across his expressive face, from pride to amusement to respect and to a certain cocky and playful insubordination too.

While the men started pushing the captured thugs toward Milton and surrounding them, all with loaded muskets, bayonets still dripping blood and pointing directly at hearts, Novak suddenly realised he'd won.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just one more chapter to go guys!


	23. Chapter 23

Novak lifted the cup of tea to his lips groaning quietly about the first hot thing he had had to eat or drink in days. Real tea, not something mixed up with tobacco and gunpowder. Actual milk too. God knows where Singer managed to get hold of some. He was sitting, sprawled in one of the few chairs in Headquarters, requisitioned by Singer and hidden deep in the man's rooms, away from Adler. 

“Er, Sir? Um, Cas?” Novak started and twisted in his seat to look at the newcomer, his familiar voice twisting a needle of happiness, lust and uncertainty through his gut. “Dean?” He asked in response, wondering if the Sergeant's amused face was due to his audible pleasure at the cup of tea.

“Singer's aide said I was wanted up here? Are you- Are we-” “We're not in trouble, Dean. As far as I know. I don't think I'm getting arrested. I still have my sword this time at least. I just think Singer wants to talk to us about what happened. Because of our accusations of spying he's taken over the investigation from Adler properly, so that's why I'm here and not under guard.” He chuckled, hands wrapped about the china cup in his hands. He peered at Winchester, still standing in the door way. “You can come in you know. Tea?” Winchester looked more awkward than he had ever seen him, shuffling slightly and shrugging almost imperceptibly.

Novak got up, wincing as his entire body protested movement and loss of comfort. He moved to the desk where an aide has deposited a tray with a surprisingly dainty tea service upon it. Before he reached the pot however he was spun around, hand firm against his chest and hip. He almost reacted, almost grabbed for his sword, almost lashed out. But then Dean's lips were upon his, a hint of rum and the bitterness of the soldiers' brew filling his mouth from Dean's tongue. He made a strange noise of surprised protest before his brain caught up and he sank in to the kiss, swiping his tongue, slow and gentle through Dean's mouth. He could feel the man's stubble rasping against his own, and he thought abstractly that they both needed to shave. They broke apart, panting slightly, and staring in to each other's eyes, pupils wider than they ought to be, even in the subdued light.

“Tea would be good, Sir, yes.” Winchester said, half whispered through a grin. 

“Fucking insufferable.” Castiel muttered under his breath, turning away to pour a cup for his Sergeant, despite the irregularity of pouring for his inferior. He spoke just loudly enough for Dean to hear, who snorted and accepted his tiny cup looking absurdly contrite. The man's false expression morphed in to one of gentleness as Novak found himself gazing unblinkingly in to Dean's eyes.

A door closing in the anteroom broke their attention from each other, and Novak sank guiltily back in to his chair, feigning a complete disregard for his Sergeant's presence. From the corner of his eye he could see Dean awkwardly sipping from his cup as he stood at ease near Singer's desk, ignoring Castiel in equal measure.

Singer entered the room with two aides and Major Adler in tow. Novak rose, leaving his cup on a spindly side table, and snapped to attention, saluting his superiors. Winchester did the same a second after placing his cup on the desk. “At ease gentlemen.” Singer drawled, nodding to Winchester to mean that he was included in the order. They relaxed their stance and Novak eyed Adler who looked white faced and furious. Singer turned to Adler with a raised eyebrow, Adler shot him a venomous glance in return before drawing breath to speak. “Captain Novak, I believe I owe you an apology.” Adler stated in clipped tones before sending another glare Singer's way. “The man Bartholomew Milton has been arrested for sending intelligence to the French. He has confessed to trying to remove you from the army, and have you shot for murder, in order to protect his identity from you. He refuses to accept responsibility for the Death of Captain Bass however, and as such we will continue to investi-” Adler stops abruptly as Singer's loud coughing fit and furious glare halt his sentence. “We have no culprit for the murder, Singer. He is still a suspect!” Alder spouted, furious in his own right. Singer waited before speaking, keeping his eyes fixed on Adler whilst addressing the room. “We find that although we do not have a culprit for the murder of Captain Bass that Captain Novak was in fact accounted for at the time of his murder. My daughter and I and a group of other officers and ladies were in fact conversing with Novak at the time. We have discussed this and the surgeon has corroborated the time of death for us. There is no cause to arrest Captain Novak or keep him from his Company any longer.”

“The fact that marching orders have been issued and Novak's company has been with out their Captain for a number of days whilst he has been capturing a dangerous spy should be sufficient for you to want him back with his men, Adler.”

Novak couldn't contain himself. “Marching orders are issued?” This was news to him. In the hours since Singer had joined them outside of their hovel with Milton and his men surrounded, he had not been in contact with anyone but Singer and Winchester, he was hustled in to this room and left to stew whilst Singer and Adler interrogated Milton.

Singer nodded, “North, after Marmont” he supplied. “He entered Portugal.” Singer expanded. Adler looked irritated and piped up “He does not need to know this Singer! Especially not the Sergeant.” Singer sent a disgusted look toward Alder but just grunted before turning to take in Winchester for the first time. “So you're the man who aided Novak here capturing Milton?” “Yes Sir.” Winchester ground out, hesitancy in his voice. He had clearly noted Singer's careful avoidance of the concept of orders, and he was obviously concerned that he would end up being disciplined for leaving the Company and running around the city against the General's standing orders. Singer surprised them both though. “Excellent. Well done Sergeant. You did a fine job. I'm sure Novak here can reward you and the men somehow. I think an extra bottle of rum may be in order Captain?” Novak politely inclined his head, while thoughts of rewarding Dean in a very different fashion flew through his head. A quick glance at his Sergeant's face was evidence enough to indicate his thoughts were running along similar lines.

“Well, Seein' as you already have your sword back in your possession, I'll let you and your Sergeant return to the Company.” Singer's face was filled with amusement, whilst Alder's was suffused with red suppressed fury. “Some boy, an Ensign, got your orders, Novak, back at the Company. Gentlemen.” He nodded, dismissing them both, before he turned, leading a near apoplectic Alder from the room.

Winchester just raised an eyebrow when the small group had left the room. “To Portugal then?”

“To Portugal Sergeant.”


End file.
